


Sub Rosa

by kore_rising



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kore_rising/pseuds/kore_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur agrees to train Ariadne as a dreamworker. As they go from city to city and job to job, Arthur discovers that initmacy isn't as simple a thing as he'd always imagined, and that light can fall through the cracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for [i_reversebang round 5](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/). The gorgeous art work by [eustacia_vye](http://ameluz71.livejournal.com/>ameluz71</a>%20that%20this%20fic%20was%20inspired%20by%20can%20be%20seen%20below.%20I%20am%20ridiculously%20grateful%20to%20<a%20href=) for being my beta, cheerleader, general handholder and all round superstar, and [anachronistique](http://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/works) for reading and being kind when it was most needed.

 

_XII._

_Your breast is enough for my heart,_   
_and my wings for your freedom._   
_What was sleeping above your soul will rise_   
_out of my mouth to heaven._   
_In you is the illusion of each day._   
_You arrive like dew to the cupped flowers._   
_You undermine the horizon with your absence._   
_Eternally in flight like the wave._   
_I have said that you sang in the wind_   
_like pines and like masts._   
_Like them you are tall and taciturn,_   
_and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage._   
_You gather things to you like an old road._   
_You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices._   
_I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated_   
_that had been sleeping in your soul._

 

_**Minneapolis-St.Paul/Paris** _

 

Arthur woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing, a harsh insistent bleat that broke through his sleep with the blunt force of a hammer. He turned over, and the over washed hotel sheets crackled under him, smelling of Clorox and artificial flowers, their sharp smell dragging him further into consciousness. His head felt muddy, and his neck and shoulders stiffened as he moved, reminding him how exhausted he still was. Running solo jobs had seemed like an easy solution once Cobb decided to retire; no one to answer to but himself, no one to potentially fuck up and leave him in the lurch and the lion’s share of the fee once he paid his anchor and furnished his expenses. It was drawing too much energy out of him, making him need more rest and recovery time than before. This was less than ideal, although he wasn’t one to admit it.

He groped on the nightstand and grabbed at his cell phone, squinting at the overly bright screen as he fell back into the thin pillows. The string of numbers was unfamiliar, but the country code prodded his brain. 011, France. This was his private number, the one he kept for his family and close associates, not the burner he had acquired for his last job which was safely switched off and stashed in the feeble hotel safe. He half considered letting it go to his answering service, but a small flare of curiosity (and perhaps hope, he couldn’t lie to himself) made him hit accept.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello? Arthur?”

 

Ariadne’s voice filtered into his ear, hesitant, a little nervous as she spoke, and immediately his brain jumped toward the most logical conclusion. He sat up instantly, fully alert all of a sudden against the fuzz in his head.

“What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?” He ran through all his usual scenarios in under two seconds flat: Fischer found out, and found her. Someone else found out and found her. She got herself involved in a job gone wrong somehow, even though he had warned her to wait—

“No, Arthur, I’m fine. How are you?” she added with a strange, forced brightness.

“Ariadne,” he said slowly, “if you can’t talk, I just need you to answer my questions, OK? Are you being—”

 

“Arthur, I’m not in trouble,” she interrupted him. “I haven’t got myself into anything I couldn’t handle. I did like we agreed, and I’ve been keeping a low profile, all right? I went back to school like I intended to and I’m graduating next week.” He could hear the note of impatience in her voice, and quite suddenly it occurred to him that she was calling him for another reason, one that he’d barely entertained since he watched her vanish into the crowds at LAX.

“Then what can I do for you?” he replied, tension bleeding out of his voice.

 

On the other end of the line Ariadne paused, and took a deep breath that he could hear rushing in his ear. For some reason that he dared not name, the hairs on the back of his neck rose in a pleasurable prickle.

“I want to work in dreamshare,” she replied in a rush. “I worked an internship for a while and it drove me crazy. I’m not— I can’t— damn it!”

“What you’re asking,” Arthur said slowly, “has its risks. You can’t lead a life like other people’s. You have to make sacrifices, and some of them aren’t,” he twisted his mouth as he searched for the word, “pleasant.”

“I talked to Cobb,” she said, making Arthur start. Cobb and he hadn’t spoken in months, a tacit agreement that Cobb wanted to distance himself from his old career as much as possible. Hearing he advised Ariadne was a surprise. She hesitated again, as if she was expecting him to react, but when he stayed silent she plunged on. “I visited him in California. He said the same things; asked me if I was just chasing the rush instead of thinking it through. But he gave me your number, said we should talk.”

 

Arthur glanced around the beige box of his motel room. He’s stayed in hundreds, maybe thousands, like it since he started working in dreamshare. Barely furnished, a generic print on the wall to attempt to add personality, high traffic carpet in a color designed not to show the dirt, a bed covered in a comforter in a pattern so ugly it makes his eyes ache to look at it. He couldn’t choose for Ariadne; she was a grown ass woman who could make her own mistakes, but was this what he could offer her? She deserved better.

 

“I know what this life is, Arthur,” Ariadne carried on, as if she was anticipating his resistance. He could only imagine how Cobb threw up obstacles, gave warnings and cautions like he’d never made a mistake once in his life. “I see what it asks of us, and I want to carry on. But I need, no, I want someone I trust to start out with.”

“And that would be me,” he finished for her. “You’ve thought about this. You know that once you’re in, going back won’t be easy. This changes you, and not many people will understand that. You’re going to be a criminal, a thief, you’re going to have to lie about who you are and what you do, even to the people closest to you. This isn’t a movie, Ariadne, it doesn’t always have a good ending, and we don’t always win.”

 

She went silent for a moment. He could imagine her, frowning into thin air as she gathered up her words.

“I changed the moment I first went under with Cobb. I changed when we went in on Fischer. I chose then, and I choose now. I want to learn everything, and I’m willing to take the risks.”

“For what?” he pushed. “The money?”

“No,” she snapped back, clearly irritated at his concern. “For the freedom. For the ability to do things that would take me years of being made to design cookie cutter strip malls and gas stations, of being condescended to, patted on the ass and being called a good, clever girl,” her voice dripped with disgust, “of being made to force myself into a mould that I don’t fit anymore because I saw what I can do, I saw what dreams offer me and that’s what I want. So quit acting like I’m walking around with my head in the clouds. I trust you and I’m asking you for help. If you don’t want to, then just fucking say so and I’ll ask someone else.”

 

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, the sympathy welling up in him in spite of himself. He could hear the frustration, the impatient itch that was almost bursting through her skin to be out in the world, doing and not waiting. But he couldn’t afford to let his feelings rule him, because that would be an excellent way to land himself face first in the shit. He told himself after Cobb that he could run solo as an extractor with point man skills, and that he needed no more permanent attachments because they could end up as much of a liability as Cobb had veered towards becoming. Besides, in his opinion there was no one as gifted or as bloody minded working in extraction who would make the sheer effort of keeping them safe and focused worthwhile. But Ariadne, she could be a different matter altogether. She had talent in spades. She was less damaged than Cobb, less emotionally unstable (if he was blunt about it) and hadn’t worked long enough to develop any of the worst habits of a long term dreamworker. She was raw, untested and labile, for sure, but she could be incredible, and incredible meant better results, and better results meant a more stable lifestyle, certainly in terms of payouts.

 

For a second he wondered if that was the coldest thought he’d ever had about her, but he pushed that away. If he was going to do this, he had to be practical, despite the part of him that was imagining him all too easily as her protector, and maybe even more than that—

Thoughts reared up that only ever came to him in the darkness of a late night, the soft hours where yesterday blurred into today. He felt a bitter loneliness yawn open inside his chest. But he wasn’t going to be so foolish as to damage someone like her with what he was. He’d stay away, and he’d do this alone, then he’d be the only one in firing line and only have himself to blame.

Now she was asking him to do the one thing he’d sworn against.

 

“Fine,” she sighed when he didn’t answer. “Screw y—”

“Ariadne,” he blurted out her name, interrupting her “Wait. I apologise, I was just thinking how best to go about doing this. I’ll help you. I can fly out tonight. Where are you?”

 

~*~

 

Ariadne was waiting for him at Charles De Gaulle international arrivals, holding two cups of coffee and wearing a messenger bag slung across her body. He saw her before she saw him, the flash of her red jacket bright as a drop of blood against the beige and grey crowds around her. He hadn’t expected her, and the pleasant surprise almost overrode his natural caution. Her hair had grown longer, he noticed idly, but the defiant line of her back and jaw was still the same, her face still a tender oval despite the set expression her face, the crease of her brow as she scanned the crowds for him. When she saw him making his way towards her, her lips tilted up at the corners and her face relaxed into a smile.

“Arthur,” she hesitated, fidgeting from foot to foot as she met his eyes. “Did you have a good flight? Here,” she said as she held out one of the cups, “I hope I remembered right. Splash of cream, no sugar, right?”

“You did. Thank you.” He took the cup and sipped, trying to smile at the same time. “You didn’t need to come and meet me,” he added. “I would have called you.”

“Perhaps I was just worried you might change your mind halfway across the Atlantic.” She took a drink of her coffee and her cheeks coloured a little as she met his eyes over the rim of her cup. Was she flirting with him? He gripped that thought in his fist and crushed it. If he was going to teach her anything, he had to start now, and his first lesson needed to be safety; of herself and her team.

 

“Thank you for coming to meet me,” he said in a low voice. “But don’t do this again. Pre and post jobs, you need to be aware that you and I and anyone else we work with will be a potential target. If the mark has security, or there are rival teams looking to slow us down or even extract from us and take information to sell it on themselves, they will be checking transport hubs like this for us. In a group, or even a pair, known extractors travelling as themselves are a red flag.”

Ariadne’s face drew up tight again, the frown marring her features. “We aren’t working yet. I’ve kept a very, very low profile since Fischer. I’m not known, and I presume you’re not travelling as yourself?”

Arthur stared at her for an instant, the challenge in her voice almost making him proud. She’d evaluated the situation, not just picked up on a whim, desperate to see him, and made a careful choice. “No,” he answered slowly, “no, I’m not. But in future,” he added, “we will be taking more precautions for our own safety. That includes being careful when and where we’re in public like this together.”

A tiny grin appeared on her face. “What could be more natural than one friend meeting another off his long, taxing flight with a refreshing coffee and the offer of a ride into the city? Anyone watching us isn’t going to think we’re doing anything more than that, are they? So us meeting like this isn’t suspicious, in fact you might even say that it was,” her grin widened, “normal.”

He looked at her, her eyes bright with her own cleverness, and bit back his own smile. She was good, but it couldn’t become a habit of hers, deciding which lessons she could take and which she could ignore.

 

“I agree. But it was a risk, even if you’ve made an assessment of it. In future you’ll need to take my lead on this, do you understand?” He took another mouthful of coffee, glancing around them. “We should get going. We’ll stop looking normal if we stand here chatting any longer.”

“Of course,” Ariadne replied smoothly, her smile now a fraction more forced. He’d bruised her, but she was doing her best not to let it show. “My car’s this way, if you want to follow me?” Her words had an edge, and he ignored it. He couldn’t be soft on her, because this life wasn’t one that allowed for it. She’d get over it, and learn to manage worse.

“Thank you, Ariadne.” He met her eyes, and for a fraction of a second it all slipped. “It’s good to see you again,” he admitted before he could stop himself. It is, he thought as her expression warmed and in that instant he finally stumbled over the idea that had been weighing on his mind since she called, that he couldn’t even admit to himself: I’ve missed you. The words nearly winded him, and he kicked them away, rapid and brutal. No, he told himself forcefully. I’m just fine alone.

 

And when this was over, and she was ready to go out into the world without him, he would be just fine then too.

 

~*~

 

He waited two days before he saw her again. Most of that time was spent checking that he’d hadn’t been followed to Paris, putting out feelers for a small scale job he could let Ariadne and himself practice with, and preparing a curriculum for her to follow. Dreamshare was an almost disparate series of disciplines, and Arthur feared that Fischer’s inception might have led Ariadne to believe that every job had the same players, the same stakes and the same requirements. In all good conscience he couldn’t let her think Cobb’s way was usual, nor that she could allow herself to trust her own uneducated instincts every time she shared a multilayered dream with someone. Some people were inherently more useful than others, but their use had to be weighed against their risk. That was something he intended to hammer home, along with teaching her to defend herself both physically and mentally, how to be unseen and untraced, and what a dream worker needed to make themselves a success.

 

Ariadne arrived at the room he rented in an old office block in the 12th looking as fresh as the day outside. Her hair and scarf were windblown and she smelled of the outdoors, her cheeks pink from the brisk air. She put down her coffee cup and dropped her bag on the empty desk facing the one holding all his papers and the PASIV, and handed him one of the takeout cups she was holding in her hands.

“You’re not living here too, are you?” She glanced around, taking in the faded paint on the walls, the old radiator and the dark patches on the carpet where furniture used to sit.

“No,” Arthur replied briskly, deflecting the implied question about where he was staying. “This is just for work.”

“Right,” Ariadne said. Her gaze lingered on the PASIV, and there was a hunger in her eyes for a moment. But she was going to have to wait.

He indicated she should sit. The pair of old chairs he scrounged up from a skip in the service yard squeaked in protest as they were forced back into use, and Ariadne grinned.

“Almost as bad as those lawn chairs,” she said as she shifted about, trying to get comfortable. “You’d think we might be able to afford better ones, right?”

“It’s a little extravagant, to buy things we have to leave behind. And turning up in a place like this carrying expensive furniture would get noticed, and notice is something to avoid. So we make do. Think of it as doing your part to save resources.” Arthur kept himself neutral, not smiling in return. “To begin with, we need to establish some cover identities for you. We’ll need documents connected to them all; passports, ID cards, bank accounts, apartment rental agreements and so on.”

 

Ariadne nodded, then reached into her bag, coming out with three plastic wallets in her hand. “Like these, you mean?” she said casually, holding them out for him to take as she sipped her coffee. Arthur swallowed the urge to gape, and instead accepted the documents with no more than a raise of his eyebrows.

“Eames,” she replied, and Arthur quelled another impulse, this one closer to jealousy than he liked to admit. “He was here a few months ago, and he looked me up. I told him what I was planning and he agreed to help. He even suggested marrying one of my identities to one of his,” she began with a smile. Arthur looked up sharply at that, a territorial instinct making his frown tighten as he looked at her. “But I decided against it.”

Good, he thought sharply. He could imagine Eames suggesting that, all smirk and twinkly eyed charm as he made it sound perfectly normal, all while knowing it would piss Arthur off immensely when he found out. He wouldn’t put it past Eames to have done something like that under Ariadne’s nose, banking on her inexperience, but as he read through the passports (one British, one Canadian, one French), checked the driver’s licences, bills and official contracts that state each of these women is genuine, he was prepared to admit that not only they are more than adequate, but also that they contained no sly ridiculousness.

 

“The bank accounts I opened myself,” Ariadne added. “Two of them have credit cards, see?” She reached over and tapped the folders. Arthur pulled out one and flipped it over, where she’d signed it in a loopy scrawl that not only could be easily duplicated, but also could be anyone’s. She’d done a good job, more and better than he had expected her to have. “I still have the identity we used for Fischer, and the numbered account that my fee went to.”

“Good.” He nodded to her and handed the papers back. “Keep the Fischer identity out of circulation for a little longer, at least another six months. These will be useful. You can acquire others as we need them.”

“More?” She widened her eyes in slight surprise. “How many do you have?”

“Enough,” he replied calmly. “You might need to dispose of an identity every so often, so having a backup is always a good idea. But you’re prepared for that,” he admitted, watching the satisfied smile bloom on her face.

 

“I have made some other,” Ariadne hesitated as she fumbled with her bag, “preparations.”

Arthur took another swallow of coffee to fortify himself. Perhaps he had been wrong to underestimate her seriousness about taking up dreamshare as a career. Far from needing him to take her every step of the way, she was already striding down the road. He’d be lying to himself if he wasn’t a little surprised. Ariadne was intelligent, thorough and sharp as a razor, but perhaps he’d failed to realize how much she must have picked up from watching them all on Fischer, and just how damn serious she was when she called him here.

“Oh? And those would be?”

She met his eyes almost shyly. “I’ve taken up Krav Maga. Just a women’s class, four days a week,” she clarified quickly when she saw his eyes widen, the surprise now verging on shock.

“That’s, umm,” he began, trying to think of a good reply. Damn, if Ariadne doing martial arts wasn’t the hottest image he’d ever had the good luck to have cross his mind. Focus, he snapped at himself. “That’s a good choice,” he collected himself. “A good basis for us to work on. I can teach you some other things that will supplement it.”

“Firearms?” she asked.

“Close combat to begin with. You’re small, and female, which like it or not puts you at a disadvantage, even with skills.”

“Muscle mass, right?”

“Right. Length of levers, size of striking surfaces, the amount of force you can apply in a grip or a strike, they’re all different. But you can overcome that with training. Then we’ll find you something you can shoot.” Too late he realized his unfortunate choice of words, and the color that they made creep down Ariadne’s neck. “A gun that you can handle in reality, suitable for your grip and hand strength.” He tried to clarify, but every word seemed to be more and more innuendo laced. Shut up! Change the subject! he snapped at himself, forcing himself to cough rather than carry on.

 

Mercifully she did it for him. “So, do we have a job?” Ariadne’s eyes darted around his face.

“In a few weeks, I’m hoping. Something small, a basic one level extraction.” Arthur turned to the PASIV rather than keep looking at her. “Enough time to give you some skills in cracking a mark as well as handling their projections.” He removed a pair of leads, tapped the timers and turned back to find her watching him with a beautiful, excited grin.

“Where do we start?”

“With me,” Arthur replied. He couldn’t help but smile back. “Let’s begin.”

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

From the first moment she jumped into the dream, looking around the soaring atrium she’d made with unabashed curiosity and smiling from ear to ear, Arthur knew she would be fantastic as an architect. He watched her in this dream, her fingers curling and uncurling as if they itched to touch, mould and recreate. It was her first instinct in dreams, even if she wanted to experience as much of dreamshare as she could. But when her eyes zeroed in on the projections, taking in their expressions and dress, right then he knew she was going to be even better at extraction than he imagined.

“What now?” she asked, glancing around.

“Find what I’ve hidden,” he instructed.

“OK,” Ariadne replied with a smile. She scanned the building, frowning as she thought. “Let’s go upstairs then.” She started off without looking back, following a female projection in a grey suit with her hair tied in a severe knot, leaving Arthur to follow in her wake.

“Why upstairs?”

“A lot of projections are heading that way,” Ariadne said over her shoulder. “When we dropped down here, the first thing you did was look up. Like you were checking something. So up is important.” She grinned back at him and then started to jog up the stairs, her hands trailing over the banister, tapping her fingers excitedly.

Ariadne tailed the female projection up three flights, down a series of corridors, all the way to a conference room, where the woman sat down, took out a pen and started to write on the papers she’d been carrying. Ariadne stopped in the doorway.

“Can I talk with her?”

“Why do you ask?” Arthur stayed behind her, hands in his pockets. He couldn't lead her.

“Fischer’s projections didn’t really speak a lot. Cobb’s didn’t either, now I’m thinking about it. Except for Mal,” she added ruefully.

“Try, and see.” Arthur watched as Ariadne cautiously entered the room and the woman looked up, frowning at her.

“Hello,” Ariadne kept her voice level.

“What do you want?” The woman had a faint French accent, and her words came out sharp and brittle. Ariadne flinched minutely, but carried on.

“I’m looking—” Ariadne stopped herself. “What are you working on?” she tried instead.

“The plans,” the woman’s eyes narrowed. “It’s important that everything be in order before we can begin.”

“Begin?” Ariadne eyed the woman’s fountain pen, the nib shining in the light with a cruel curve.

“We have a project to complete. The thirtieth floor development. Why don’t you know about it? You don’t seem right,” the woman stood, her grip on her pen tightening. “Who are you?”

“I’m new. I just started today,” Ariadne held her hands up, palms forward. “I’m from Mr. Charles’ office. We do things a little differently there.”

The woman frowned again, examining her from head to toe. “I know Mr. Charles. He’s Mr. Green’s associate. Perhaps I should call someone from Resources for you.”

“That would be great,” Ariadne said in a relieved voice. “I think I got lost. New building, so many rooms,” she smiled and shook her head.

“Take a seat,” the woman ordered, and strode out, passing Arthur as if he didn’t exist, shutting the door behind her.

The minute she was gone, Ariadne was across the room, trying the door handle. “Locked,” she looked around, pursing her lips. “Why didn’t she attack if she suspected me?”

Arthur sat down on the edge of the long table. “I know Cobb’s favourite metaphor for the unconscious is to compare it to the immune system. That sensing foreign bodies leads it to attack.” Ariadne nodded. “There is a case to be made that after shared dreaming was developed the idea of an aggressive unconscious was a paradigm created by the military nature of its use. Early subjects were always in battle simulations, fighting a mind purposely trying to eject them, so they began to do the same when they were the dreamers. As dreamshare spread, so did that construction. Ex-military extractors passed it on to the people they trained, and again when they trained civilians in unconscious defence.”

“So why aren’t you, right now? Why has she just contained me?”

“Think about it,” Arthur instructed.

“You don’t sense me as a threat.” Ariadne tried.

“You’re locked in. That’s not the action of someone not perceiving a threat.”

“What you’re protecting isn’t that important to you?”

“I think it’s important enough to protect.” He folded his arms over his chest. “But you’re right, the more the mind wants to keep something from you, the harder the unconscious works.”

“Your unconscious has another paradigm.” Ariadne’s eyes flickered around the room. “A nonaggressive one. No,” she looked at him carefully. “One that uses appropriate force, not indiscriminate force. I’m not visibly armed, and I explained why I was here, so your unconscious assessed me as needing containment, not to be killed. Like surrounding a foreign object with a wall of skin cells until it can be ejected from the body, right?” She met his slow smile with one of her own.

“So I can take advantage of that,” her eyelids lowered for a second, then she snatched up the hard plastic binder the female projection had left on the table, pulling all the papers out and folding it flat. She slid the covers between the door and the frame, angling it to one side as it hit the lock. She bent down, working the handle and muttering “Come on,” to herself, until there was a thunk, and the door swung open.

“Where did you learn that?” Arthur failed to hide his mild admiration as she beamed at him again.

“Girl Scouts,” she replied innocently as she shed her jacket and hurriedly tied her hair back with her scarf, tucking the loose ends under the back of her shirt. She buttoned her vest, then at the last minute stuffed her shirttails into her jeans, smoothing the fabric out.

“Better. I look more like I fit now,” she replied to his querying look. “Come on, before she gets back.” Ariadne plucked up the binder and holding it in one arm, set off at a rapid stride down the corridor.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Arthur asked calmly.

“Left twice, right twice, left, then four rights,” she murmured. “I counted the turns. The lift is opposite the stairs. Thirtieth floor, then we’ll see. You’re more aware of me now, so I’m guessing you’re going to try harder to stop me.”

Arthur didn’t reply. Better to let her find out and see just how good her lateral thinking was under pressure, he reasoned. He followed her back to the atrium, watching as she avoided eye contact with his projections, who nonetheless by now were glancing around with more focus. Ariadne’s stride lengthened, and he could see her free hand fisting open and closed at her side.

They were mere feet from the elevator when the female projection came barreling down the corridor towards them, shouting and pointing. The projections on the landing turned, all bent towards her, all eyes focusing on her as they began to close in.

“Fuck,” Ariadne grabbed Arthur’s arm, pulling him along as she sprinted to the elevator, slapping the call button and all but falling inside when the doors glided apart. “Come on, come on,” she hissed as she darted towards the buttons, stabbing the door close. Hands shot into the gap as the elevator obeyed, and Ariadne lashed out with the binder, edges first, hacking at them as if she was mowing grass. Someone yelped indignantly, and Ariadne smashed harder, one foot lashing out to kick, her other hand holding the door close button down. Arthur heard the elevator ping, and Ariadne fell back, panting as the doors finally shut, and smacking the button for the thirtieth floor.

“Restricted,” a smooth, artificial voice apologised, and with a gentle thunk a scanner emerged from the panel. “Present biometric identification. Failure to input will alert security. Restricted. Present biometric—”

“Alright, alright, shut up.” Ariadne turned, grabbed Arthur’s wrist, and taking advantage of his surprise yanked him forwards and before he could object slapped his hand onto the reader, holding it in place. The panel illuminated with bright blue light. “Scanning,” the elevator stated the obvious in its bland tone. “Accepted. Arthur Moss. Clearance level alpha.” The lift jerked slightly and begin to ascend.

Ariadne released his hand and shot him a sheepish look. “Arthur Moss?” She asked.

“Perhaps,” Arthur admitted, with a half smile. She seemed anxious over grabbing and rough handling him not once, but twice, perhaps expecting an admonishment. “You did well with that,” he offered, trying to put her at her ease. Ariadne’s smile in return had a hint of mischief.

“Thanks,” she looked him up and down. “Sorry for, you know, getting physical.”

Arthur swallowed, the dryness in his mouth sudden and unwanted. “Fine,” he replied shortly. “What’s your next move?”

“Get there, see what’s what.” She straightened up, brisk again. “See how you’re reacting. Although judging by what just happened I’m guessing you’re going to be ramping things up.” She fixed her eyes on the display counting up the floors.

“Perhaps,” he replied again, making her turn back to him with a raised eyebrow. “With a mark you can’t get them to warn you about everything that’s coming around every corner. They don’t know, for one thing. For another, unless they trust you implicitly, have no sub training or no aggressive tendencies whatsoever, they very rarely completely acquiesce.”

“But at the end of Fischer—” she started.

“His subconscious calmed because he’d absorbed the idea we implanted and it was seeping through his mind. That takes effort and energy, so his focus moved and his subsecurity dropped back. And he had Eames distracting him as Browning. During extraction marks don’t get calm, they get more alert because they feel you trying to take things out. Distraction is one method of dividing their attention so they have less focus on stopping you.”

“Are there other ways?” Ariadne turned back to him. “If I’m doing this alone, like now, can I distract and extract at the same time?”

“You can,” Arthur conceded, thinking over his last few jobs. “But it’s not easy. Force and speed are advantageous, but being able to judge the situation and play into it is most important, and that only comes with practice.”

“So you’ve set me up to fail?” Ariadne responded angrily, her expression veering dangerously close to a pout.

“This isn’t a test,” Arthur replied, keeping his tone even. “This is about you learning what extraction requires of us. We’ll do this again and again, in different scenarios and in multiple dream levels, so you can develop your skills. We don’t always succeed, Ariadne. I warned you of that.”

She turned away again, the line of her back ramrod straight. He could almost feel the stubbornness radiating off her like steam. The elevator slowed, purring to a halt.

“Floor thirty,” the artificial voice intoned pleasantly as the doors rolled open, allowing a draft of cold air to roll inside. Beyond the doors the hallway was dim, only the emergency lighting’s weak glow breaking up the dark, and it was just possible to see doors leading off to who knew where, all closed and dark beyond their small, square viewing windows. It was completely and deadly silent. No one spoke and nothing moved. Ariadne had pulled back, one hand firmly on the door close just in case, but now she stepped forwards, glancing up and down warily.

“Where is everyone?” she murmured to herself. “It’s freezing up here,” she added, rubbing her goose bumped arms. Arthur followed her as she began to creep down the hallway, keeping her body close to the left hand wall. She was still clutching the binder in her right hand, drawing it back as she approached the first door, stretching up to peep through the window. As she did so the lights in the room flicked on, making her flinch back for a second before she pressed forward again, her eyes widening as stared into the room beyond.

“What the—?” Arthur moved behind her, consciously keeping his distance even as the urge to rest his hands on her shoulders rose. In the room beyond a winter bare forest stretched away as far as they could see, black trunked pine trees forcing up from the snow covered ground to scratch at the grey sky with their hissing dark green branches. The wind blew flurries of snow up to spatter the glass, confusing the scene with dancing flecks of white, whirling in hypnotic patterns that drew the eye in and muddled it. Ariadne swayed slightly, caught in the illusion, before it resolved and out of the dark trees and flying flakes flew a sleek silver body, arrow sharp with fangs and claws bared as it leapt at the door, wrinkled muzzle and yellow eyes.

“Shit!” Ariadne crashed into him as she reared back, hands flailing behind her as there was a clatter and screech of claws striking the glass, followed by a low, vibrating growl. He could hear her panicked breathing as she leant against him, the subtle tremor of her fear transmitting through her skin.

“Is that a projection?” Ariadne’s voice had pitched up a note.

“Yes. A timber wolf,” Arthur kept his voice low, hoping it would calm her. “The subconscious can project any number of things defensively.”

“Are there more of them?” Ariadne didn’t move away from him. “Can it get out? No,” she answered herself. “No door handle. It opens inwards. Something would have to release it.” She started forward again, and the wolf reared up, fixing her with its predator's gaze, its hot breath clouding the glass and dots of scarlet blood clear on its pale chin as its lips rolled back over its teeth.

“It’s likely there are more,” Arthur gripped her shoulders and began to guide her backwards, away from the door. “Don’t fix on it. Keep moving.” He prompted. “Remember why you’re here.”

Ariadne turned away from the door, shaking herself and moving out from his grasp. “OK,” she took a deep breath and started forwards, glancing back to the wolf only once. When Arthur looked back, the animal was no longer snarling, just watching her with its luminous eyes, curious and wary.

She carried down the corridor as he trailed behind her, peering into rooms. They were filled with filing cabinets; glass fronted servers that winked and hummed faintly; a library that Ariadne paused at, her hand touching the door for a moment before she moved on; then a room that looked to be full of racks and racks of clothes, all in shades from grey to black, where she lingered a little longer, a smile at the edge of her lips.

“Why aren’t you looking in any of these rooms?” he asked calmly.

“I’m guessing,” Ariadne said as she turned back to him, “that this is the top of your mind. The public mind, if you like. The face you show to the world. Information, organisation, defence.” She smiled properly this time. “The sharp dressed mind criminal. All these doors open,” she added, taking the handle and twisting it a little, “so these are things you’re OK with me seeing. But you wouldn’t make it that easy, would you? I wouldn’t just be able to walk in just like that. All except that one back there, which has no keyhole, no code lock or scanner. I think the wolf is a defence mechanism, one you’ll probably release when I get close. Do you hear anything?” She cocked her head on one side.

“No,” Arthur said calmly. “But how do you know it’s not in there, with her?”

“She,” Ariadne relished the pronoun, “or the place where she lives, isn’t something you’ve hidden from me. That isn’t a secret. I think you keep her there, in her element, until you absolutely need her.”

Arthur was about to reply when in the distance a siren started to blare, and suddenly all the lights flickered on, orange warning beacons emerging from the ceiling, flashing urgent morse pulses onto the stark white walls.

“Alert,” the same bland voice from the elevator announced from around them. “Alert. Defence protocol initiated. Remain still and cooperate and you will be unharmed. Alert.”

Ariadne looked around them wildly, then took off down the hall at a run. “Come on,” she yelled over her shoulder at him, barely looking back as he followed. Her hand trailed the wall on her left, brushing each door handle as she sprinted past, her rapid glances scanning the doors to the right, rejecting each as she went.

“Remain still and cooperate,” the voice insisted. “You have ten seconds to comply. Appropriate force will be used if you fail to do so.”

Ariadne kept on, dashing forwards until she veered right, slamming into a windowless door that bore only a touch plate. “This one,” she insisted, panting as she looked at him. “How do I get in?”

“You have failed to comply. Defence protocol in operation.” There was a loud thunk, and all the doors behind them swung open in one coordinated motion.

“Crap.” Ariadne’s eyes had gone wide. She grabbed his wrist again and slapped his hand against the touch pad, pushing it down. Behind them came a howl, echoing off the ceiling, then another, and another in a wailing cacophony.

“It’s not working,” she cried, turning to him. “How does it open?” She demanded, panic colouring her voice. “Arthur, how does it open?” She glanced down the corridor, and Arthur followed suit. From the far end came a low, surging tide of wolves, running in a sleek formation. Their fur shone dully in the lights, brown, cream and grey; ears pricked and eyes sharp, all focused on her. He felt the energy coming from himself, the urge to stop and defend coursing through him from the base of his unconscious, even as he tried to stay focused on the exercise.

“You have to think,” he insisted. Who was he talking to? Her, or himself?

“I don’t have time. They’re going to rip me to pieces, Arthur. Help me!” She was almost yelling, and the whites of her eyes were showing as fear absorbed her features. The pack was so close that the smell of animal sweat was filling the air, dark and threatening, the last sense of the prey meeting the predator.

Ariadne’s face twisted, realising it was too late and he wouldn’t give in, so she pushed him aside, falling into a defensive crouch and covering her head with her hands. There was a skitter of claws, and the lead wolf leapt out towards her, sharp as an arrow, snapping and growling, just as Arthur drew his gun, slammed into the base of her skull and fired. The smell of burnt bone and flesh overtook him as she toppled down to the ground, her hands falling open and her hair dark with blood.

The lead wolf landed softly next to her, its whole demeanor shifting from a snarling attack to a quiet curiosity in the blink of an eye, sniffing her hands, her head and hair. Behind the leader, the pack halted suddenly, panting with lolling tongues as they looked at Arthur, his gun drawn and blood spots on his hands. Next to him the lead wolf whined softly, and when he looked down it looked back, its golden eyes softer than before, then calmly lowered its head and started to lick Ariadne’s hand.

Arthur watched it for a long moment, then raised his gun to his temple and fired.

 

~*~

 

Ariadne was sitting up, her back to him, her shoulders hunched and her chin on her chest as she rubbed the back of her head.

Arthur moved cautiously, touching her shoulder as he’d done once before, a lifetime ago. “Are you OK?” he asked, and she leant briefly into his hand.

“Yeah. Thank you,” Ariadne replied in a low, rough voice. “Torn apart by wolves would have been worse.” She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself. “God, that hurts. Every time, it always hurts. You think you’ll get used to it, but you never do.”

Arthur cautiously let himself massage the tight muscle under his fingers. “No, you don’t. The day you do is the day you start taking stupid risks with your life.”

Ariadne gave a small, dry laugh. “I nearly had it,” she shook her head. “I was so close, I’m sure I was. If you had just—“

“I couldn’t. You can’t cheat an extraction on a mark. You can’t force them to tell you.” Arthur pressed his palm into her back. “You learn them. You build them a dream. You distract them. You take what you need. You get out. It wasn’t a test,” he reiterated. “It was about you seeing and adapting to the subconscious, to find out what you could do against a resisting mind. We’ll do this again, and each time it will be different, and each time you’ll learn something about how to work.”

Ariadne exhaled and pulled her shoulders back, lifting her head before she turned back to him, the hint of a smile on her face.

“But I was close, wasn’t I?” she persisted.

Arthur looked at her, and for a moment he let himself soften, feel a hint of pride in her. She had pushed, evaded and fought, things he hadn’t truly expected, even if he had felt the potential inside her before. He’d pushed her, and she’d come out to meet him, only falling when her fear won over. “For what it’s worth, I think you were close,” he admitted, allowing her a small smile in return. “Next time, you might get closer.”

“You bet I will. Just so you know, I’m googling how to fight wolves when I get home tonight. So be ready.” Ariadne’s grin was beautiful, and for one moment he felt his breath catch in his chest. Time went fluid, and for a long moment he felt himself being drawn into her, her body so close to his, her shining eyes and her brilliant, glittering, razor sharp mind. The wolf, licking her hand. No, he snapped to himself. Don’t fuck this up and make it complicated.

“Coffee,” he let her go and freed his lead from his arm, distracting himself with the PASIV, dragging his thoughts back to work. “We both need coffee. Then we’ll do it again.”

 

~*~

 

After three weeks of putting out feelers, sifting and evaluating, Arthur found them a job.

“The mark’s name is Jasper. Michael Jasper,” he added when Ariadne looked up at him with a question forming on her lips. “He’s based in London. Works in corporate finance. His bosses believe he was one of the group implicated in manipulating foreign currency markets last fall, but that he skimmed a healthy chunk of money aside for himself rather than putting it into their accounts. So far, forensic accounting has led to a dead end. Whatever he’s done, he’s hidden it reasonably well. He has no known sub training, he’s not been extracted from or used the PASIV recreationally in the past.”

“Do people do that? Actually, what am I saying?” Ariadne raised her eyebrows as she looked over the file in front of her. “Isn’t there a saying about every technology eventually being used for sexual purposes?”

“Well, in this case it’s correct. But it’s difficult and expensive to buy Somnacin unless you have connections to the community, and you need to either own a PASIV or know someone who does. There are dens that will cater to that need, but they charge a great deal.That tends to limit the number of people using it for wet dreams,” Arthur added dryly.

“Is that what it’s called?” Ariadne snorted a laugh. “Do they really—? Never mind.” She caught his expression and looked away, shaking her head. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Jasper is due at a European currency markets forum in Brussels in two weeks time, where he’s due to give a talk on the role of his bank as a facilitator in improving banking regulation. We’ll use the conference as a method of getting close to him, and as a way of focusing his attention on his work. It’s likely that if he has secret accounts, the idea of discussing how to stop others doing what he did will bring it closer to the surface.”

Ariadne rested her chin on her hands. “Who’s extracting?”

“I am,” Arthur replied. “You’re going to be focusing on designing the dream this time, then you’re going to shadow me for the extraction. It won’t be a back seat role,” he added firmly, forestalling any protests. “You’re going to need to be ready to distract his subconscious and watch my back. Which means we’re going to need to work on your defensive skills as a priority.”

“So I’m guessing it’s time for guns and fighting,” Ariadne said glibly. “Dream training first, I take it?”

“It will be part of it.” He didn’t rise to her jokey tone. “We’ve done a little, but now we need to step it up. You need to be prepared to stop a projection, not just slow it down, and that means being able to take it out.”

She glanced down at the file again, and he waited for her to respond. They had trained together in a few brief dream scenarios, mostly so he could assess her capacity and the skills she’d picked up. She was quick, light on her feet and her size meant she could slip and twist out of sight and grasp with admirable speed. She was pretty limber and flexible too, he’d noted with a passing satisfaction, but her disadvantage was always going to be that she wasn’t as physically imposing as her opponents, and that meant she had to rely on being able to strike vulnerable points, breaking holds and creating distance to escape. Being able to handle a gun would give her an advantage, but so far she’d seemed reluctant to try, and now he knew he had to force the issue.

“Shooting projections isn’t like shooting human beings,” He carried on after a few moments of silence. Ariadne looked up at him suddenly, the crease between her eyes deepening. “I was in the military,” he explained, surprised at just how simply he could tell her the truth about himself. Better that than to mention other deaths, he reasoned calmly to himself. Corpses fallen below rainbow arcs of red, red blood that thickened into black clots as the heat of living left it. The cold detachment, the desire to survive, cracking open to the reality that in order to do so someone else had been killed. He hadn’t thought of it in years, those fractions of seconds just after the gun fired or the knife struck, when air rattled from their chests and they crumpled like sacks of meat, or begged for help, mercy or God, and the impact of what he’d done would shriek in his head for an eternal moment.

“It isn’t that,” Ariadne’s mouth worked around the words silently for a second. “Not entirely. I asked Cobb something once, and he didn’t answer me properly. When we kill projections, are we killing parts of the subject’s mind?”

“Would it bother you if we were?” Arthur asked, more to gauge her reaction than anything else.

She lowered her eyebrows and stared him down. “Yes, it would. Taking is one thing. Willfully destroying is another.”

Arthur inhaled slowly. “Projections are manifestations of aspects of the subject’s unconscious. They represent forces and ideas as much as memories of actual people. But killing one in a dream only serves to weaken or distract that force or idea during the dream. It can’t physically destroy the area of the brain, or the neural connections to and from it. Permanently removing areas of memory, sensation or even just a single idea is a great deal harder than just shooting a projection.”

“But people do it?”

“Theoretically it’s entirely possible, just like inception is. But the reality is that it’s complex, difficult and hard to achieve, because the human brain isn’t a straightforward series of slots each holding a separate, isolated piece of information. Everything is interconnected, meshed into a whole, so it’s like trying to hack a single thread out of a cobweb without breaking it. If it was as simple as killing a projection everyone would do it, and there would be some immensely powerful people in this world with brains like Swiss cheese. Not to mention that this would be entirely more illegal than it already is. But let’s get back to the subject in hand.”

He reached down and picked up the small black case he’d stashed under the desk earlier. He’d managed to source a gun from a contact in Eastern Europe, given how well regulated and controlled gun ownership was in Western Europe it had been almost his only choice, especially since he wanted something of good enough quality. Close combat weapons like knives weren’t an option for her yet, nor was his Glock. He’d opted for a Springfield Armoury compact, small enough for her hands and to conceal, but powerful enough to be useful at range. Ariadne watched as he opened the case, ejected the magazine, racked the slide back a few times and slotted in the barrell safety, then laid the gun down on the desk between them. Ariadne looked first at him, then down at it, keeping her hands folded in front of her.

“Take it,” he instructed in a calm voice.

Her hands fisted loosely for a few seconds, her thumbs running over her knuckles, before she reached out with her right hand and closed it around the grip, drawing the gun to her but not picking it up.

“Both hands,” Arthur carried on.

She hesitated again, then lifted it, wrapping her left hand over her right and her face creasing in surprise.

“It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be.”

 

“It’s not loaded,” Arthur watched her turn it from side to side, testing it in her hand.

“What this yellow thing?” Ariadne turned the barrel towards herself and Arthur instinctively shot out his hand and grabbed it back, making her start.

“Never, ever turn a gun toward yourself,” he cautioned sharply. “Or me. You have to treat all guns like they’re loaded all the time, otherwise you get sloppy and people get hurt, including you. So don’t point it at anyone or anything you’re not willing to shoot.” He took a breath to calm himself. “It’s a barrel safety device so you can dry fire. Reality will give you a better sense of how handling a gun feels, and that will translate into dreaming.”

Ariadne licked her lips nervously. “OK,” she nodded shortly. “All right. Start from the beginning. How do I hold it properly? Show me.” She stood up, keeping the gun pointed down at the floor, her expression deadly serious.

Arthur moved to stand facing her, keeping an appropriate distance and his eyes on her hands as he adjusted them.

“Shooting hand is your dominant hand,” he tapped her right with his fingertips, motioning for her to rest her hand in his, the gun uppermost. “It goes around the grip first. Tuck your thumb down and away from the trigger and the slide.” He folded her thumb down to show her. “Now your other hand wraps around it, like you’re making a double fist with the grip in the middle.” Ariadne complied. “Relax your hands a little. Not so tight,” he cautioned as her knuckles went pale. “Keep your right index finger free, and rest it on the trigger guard. Here,” he gently pushed her finger into place. “The rest of your fingers lie on top of each other, and your other thumb tucks over the top of the first to keep them both folded down and away. Like this,” he moved her left hand down with his and curled her fingers round by cupping them with his right, easing her thumb down with his.

“You should be able to put the first crease of your index finger on the trigger, so you have more strength to squeeze it back.” He put his finger over hers, and moved them both into place. “There, do you see?” He looked up at her, and she nodded again.

“OK,” he dropped his left hand and guided her into an isosceles stance, aiming at a stack of old telephone directories that had been left to yellow in their office. “Line the sight up to the target. You’re going to wobble, so don’t try to make yourself completely still.” His chest was barely touching her shoulder, but even this close he could feel an urge to press in closer, and he snapped himself into line. He heard her swallow, and felt the tightness in her body, tension making her stiff and awkward.

“Relax,” he said quietly to her, and her lips twisted for a moment but she didn’t turn her head.

“You know, saying that never works.”

“All right. Breathe through your nose into your stomach, expand it all the way, then fill your chest. Slowly,” he coached. “Now pull your stomach in as you exhale as much as you can. Again,” he advised. “It’s called a modular breath. It’s good for controlling adrenaline. Again,” he said as she took a deep breath, and her arms dropped a little in his grip. “How’s that?”

“Better,” she admitted.

“Now, keep your wrists straight, so you can absorb the recoil into your bones, not your muscles.” Arthur shifted his grip to demonstrate. “Don’t lock your elbows or your shoulders out.” In profile he watched her tighten her lips, her eyebrows lowered as she stared down the sight. Under his hand hers was warm and so small in comparison it would have felt fragile, save for the power closing her grip.

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” his lowered his voice, trying not to break her concentration. “When you’re ready, with your right hand, squeeze the grip so the safety releases,” Ariadne moved with him as he did so, her focus completely on the target.

“Put your index finger over the trigger,” he murmured. “Exhale,” The word made a few strands of her hair flutter on her neck. “Now squeeze it back,”

The firing pin dropped with a loud snap. “Shot fired.” Arthur watched the slow, satisfied smile spread over Ariadne’s face. He felt her hand press against his briefly, but instead of squeezing back, he dropped his grip from around her and stepped away. “Good. Again,” he prompted briskly before she could react or he could regret letting go. “The more you practice with dry firing in reality, the better you’ll be using live rounds in a dream. Twenty minutes, three times a day, before we start, before we eat, and before we leave for the night. Understood?” He sounded sharp, even to himself, but Ariadne merely turned her head, made eye contact for a few seconds, and nodded.

“Let’s begin,” he folded his arms over his chest, watching as she took aim while pressing the palm of his right hand against his ribs to try to erase the feel of her from his skin.

 

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

_** Brussels/Taipei ** _

  
  
The air in Taipei city was thick with warm water, smearing the lights of the Taipei 101 into misty shimmers above the hazy skyline. It pressed down like the door of a clothes dryer, sealing the city into the oppressive bubble of an impending rainstorm. Arthur had woken that morning in damp sheets, clinging to him in a binding knot that in his half awake state had made him panic for a few seconds, afraid his subconscious had conjured it up.  
  
  
The room he was working in now was stickily hot, despite the fans strafing air across his skin. He could feel the sweat on his scalp crawling down the curve of his skull. It smelt of stale tobacco smoke and wet growth from the dank corners, the wallpaper sagging from the damp in speckled swags. Only he and the extractor were currently in the city, a rail thin redheaded woman who went by the incongruously Scandinavian name Larsson. She was across the room from him, basking by the large window, idly reading her notes on the subject, and half heartedly looking over the off the peg layout she’d purchased to save the expense of an architect. She’d been shooting him glances for the last few hours, but Arthur had kept himself to himself, working on the mark’s background with his usual methodical approach, pausing only to take gulps of cold, burnt tasting coffee that he’d managed to scrounge up from his hotel breakfast buffet.  
  
He knew she was waiting for a moment to engage him, and he was trying his best not to give her the chance. Hopefully she’d give it up and stay on task. Unfortunately Larsson was in the mood for chat whether he liked it or not, and in the end gave up waiting for him to acknowledge her and jumped straight in.  
  
  
“The word is you’re training someone up. A woman.”  
  
  
Arthur didn’t look up from his laptop. It didn’t surprise him that Larsson knew, or that she was trying to fish for more details. The dreamshare community could be downright suffocating at times, everyone peering over everyone else’s shoulders. It had its uses, especially when trying to build a team, but it also had a rich flavour of high school that he had always despised.  
  
  
“An attractive, talented woman.” He didn’t even have to look to see Larsson was leering. It was dripping off every word.  
  
“What of it?” Arthur replied shortly, looking up at her. He was going to have to nip this in the bud or face three weeks of her barely veiled attempts to dig up information about Ariadne.  
  
“I was just surprised, that’s all. After Cobb, you see, and you working solo for that last eight months. So, is it true? She’s an architect, I hear.” She gave him a look that Eames would have been proud to call his own.  
  
“Do you.” He narrowed his eyes a fraction.  
  
“Worked with you on Robert Fischer.” Larsson’s full lips pressed into a shape like a kiss, and for one horrific moment he thought she was alluding to the second level, the kiss he had stolen and kept pressed between the pages of his memories.  _No one had seen that,_  he reminded himself sharply.  _Cobb had been with Fischer. Eames had been prowling towards the elevator. Could Ariadne herself have said something to someone? No,_  he decided firmly. And he wasn’t about to ask, bring the subject of kissing up and fall head first into a situation that would lead God knew where.  
  
  
“What does this have to do with Yamada?” He looked away from Larsson and back to his laptop, hoping she’d take the hint.  
  
“Just making conversation, that’s all. Catching up.”  
  
  
He grit his teeth for a moment, then fixed her with his best impassive expression. “I’m not here for that. If I am training someone or taking up a partnership, that’s my affair.”  
  
“Of course,” Larsson backed off, hands raised and her eyes wide with innocence. “I was just...pleased. After all that business with being so close to the Cobbs when it all went to shit, I thought you might have sworn off long term relationships. Of any kind. Then when I heard from Kate…” Larsson’s expression sharpened, and Arthur felt his shoulders stiffen.  
  
“Kate and I haven’t spoken since Moscow. My private life is none of your concern, and I’d appreciate you not repeating gossip. I’m here to do a job and so are you.”  
  
“Sorry. I didn’t realise I was going to hit a nerve by showing some professional concern.”  
  
  
Arthur closed his eyes for a second and exhaled. She was trying to bait him, and there was no way he was going to let her get under his skin any more than she already had. It was bad enough he’d almost let the comment about Kate get under his skin, whom he’d had a perfunctory night with after an extraction on a mob boss. He thought they had parted amicably, but now she appeared to be spilling it all over the community.  _This was why he should keep his personal and business lives separate,_  he chided himself. He wasn’t going to let Ariadne get smeared by the likes of Larsson, nor give her any more chance to try.  
  
  
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Arthur replied as calmly as he could. “Certainly secondhand gossip about things that have nothing to do with my work. If you have professional concerns, feel free to raise them now. I’d like to keep the air between us as clear as possible.”  
  
Larsson’s mouth tightened a fraction. “No. I apologise. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”  
  
“No, you shouldn’t. But let’s forget it and move on, shall we?” He hoped she could hear the steel under his words, because he could certainly feel it sharpening his tongue.  
  
“Of course,” Larsson nodded briefly, pulling her feet off her work table and standing. “I’d better go and call Yusuf, see when he’s arriving.”  
  
“Excellent idea,” Arthur resumed typing, ignoring her as she stalked out.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
Yusuf bustled into the room, his hand out and a broad smile on his face. “Arthur,” he said warmly. “So good to hear from you again.”  
  
“Yusuf,” Arthur replied levelly, shaking his hand. “I’m glad you’re on board with this.”  
  
“Well, I say every time that I won’t go back into the field, but sometimes even I cannot resist the thrill of the chase. The money helps, too.” His eyes twinkled as his grin sharpened. “Even if I’m just here to overcome Mr. Yamada’s less savoury habits and be your anchor.”  
  
“It’s good to know you’ll be taking care of us,” Arthur replied honestly. Not that Larsson was a fool or a risk taker, but she tended towards working on the fly, and while that got results it wasn’t Arthur’s preferred style of handling any mark, least of all one as connected as Yamada.  
  
“So,” Yusuf began to unpack his case, “I hear you and Ariadne are working together. How is she doing?”  
  
“Where did you hear that?” Arthur quelled the impulse to snap back as he had at Larsson. Yusuf had never been one for gossip when they’d worked together before, but if even he’d heard—  
  
  
Yusuf glanced up from arranging his reagent bottles. “From the horse’s mouth, my friend. Ariadne’s spending some time in Mombasa,” he clarified.  
  
“What’s she doing there?” Arthur felt a lurch of anxiety, the thought of Cobol looming in his mind. They weren’t famed for their subtlety, and dreamworkers were always on their list of potential recruits, both for espionage and their shadier dream experiments. Mombasa was a prime hunting ground for them, a city that boasted dream dens and coffee houses, the interchange of deals being done and information exchanged, married to a less than rigorous legal background.  
  
  
Yusuf gave him a look so old fashioned that he could practically hear the hipsters clamouring to buy it. “You know that’s not something we should discuss.”  
  
  
Arthur knew what Yusuf was expecting. Nothing less than information for information, the other currency of dreamwork. “We are working together,” he admitted. “She asked me to help her find her feet. She’s showing a lot of promise.”  
  
“I see,” Yusuf tilted his head on one side. “Well, that can only be for the good. You are a safe pair of hands, after all.” Arthur raised his eyebrows, waiting for Yusuf to return the favour. ”She’s in Mombasa, helping in my den. We spoke a week ago, and she mentioned she was interested in all aspects of dream use, so I offered her the chance to build some dreams for my clients. She has a knack for such clarity, such detail, I felt that it would be something they might enjoy.”  
  
“How long is she going under for?” Arthur pressed. He couldn’t have another addict on his hands, and Ariadne was so new at this, the appeal of being powerful and making anything she wanted writ so large across her, he could see the darkness hovering around her future like smoke.  
  
“An hour a day, no more. She was very clear about that,” Yusuf fixed him with a steady look. “As was I. In the meantime she’s been catching up with Eames, he’s been showing her the sights, and so on. He’s watching her back, Arthur. No need to worry.”  
  
  
_I hope her back is all he’s watching,_  Arthur sniped to himself childishly. “That’s good to know,” he said out loud, adding “thank you.” Fair was fair, after all. Yusuf had broken etiquette by revealing Ariadne’s whereabouts and what she was doing, as had he by confirming he had taken her on.  
  
  
“So, shall we begin with Yamada’s bloodwork?” Yusuf changed the subject briskly, and the matter of Ariadne was tacitly dropped.  
  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
**_Taipei/Dublin_**

  
  
Before he left Taipei he sent Ariadne a message. A single question mark, nothing more. Her reply had come back as an equally stark three lines:  
  
_N 40° 42’ 46.021’’_  
_W 74° 0’ 21.388’’_  
_12.00h_  
  
  
Not an unbreakable code by any means, but she was learning to make things more challenging, he noted with satisfaction. It took a few taps on his mapping app to pin the coordinates down, and another few minutes to book his flight. He packed his case, and cleaned down his hotel room to remove any fingerprints or DNA he might have left, just in case Yamada pulled in any of the police he had on his payroll to search for them and pin a handy death or robbery onto their identities.  
  
The rain fell all the way to the airport, washing him from it’s surface, chasing him out of the city and into the cloud thick sky.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
Ariadne was sitting at an outdoor table, dressed in a thick, black coat, red gloves and a scarf. The weak spring sunlight caught at the highlights in her hair, falling down her back as she read and sipped her coffee. When he slipped into the seat opposite her, gesturing to the server with a nod and a wave, she looked up and smiled.  
  
  
“You’re late.”  
  
“Blame the jetlag.” He replied blandly as the server stopped alongside them, pad and pen at the ready. “I’ll take a double espresso please. Nothing to eat.”  
  
  
Ariadne closed her book and lay it on the table as the server bustled away. “You had the full Irish breakfast earlier, I take it?”  
  
  
Arthur peeled off his gloves and sat back, regarding her across the space between them. She had freckled in the Kenyan sun, and a light tan spread over her face to her collarbones and the backs of her hands. “Airplane food just doesn’t fill you up like a plate of fried food.” He had missed the comfort he felt around her, and slipping into an easy banter was all too easy.  
  
  
“Not much better than potato pancakes, bacon and eggs, I agree.” She sipped her latte. “I’ve had it every day I’ve been here. My mom always said I had hollow legs. I guess you must too.” She appraised him across the table, a teasing light in her eyes.  
  
  
He was about to reply when her cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” she apologised as she fished it from her bag, unlocking it and reading in silence. As he watched a faint colour appeared in her cheeks and she smiled, a private, intimate smile. Instantly the ease vanished, and an awkward tension wrapped around him, making him feel stiff and stupid.  
  
  
“Is it urgent?” He asked in a stilted voice that seemed to come from a million miles away.  
  
“No,” Ariadne’s smiled deepened as she shook her head. “No, it’s just Eames.” She sounded fond, indulgent and his jaw tightened at the ideas that were suddenly crowding into his brain.  _Listen to yourself_ , he snapped back.  _You damn hypocrite. You know what you can and can’t do. Why shouldn’t she?_  
  
  
“Is he well?” Arthur hoped he sounded careless enough. Ariadne smiled again, dropping her phone into her bag. When she looked up her pupils had widened to dark pools ringed with amber, and the ideas turned and became a clamour of sneering goblins, poking and jabbing as they chanted in his head.  
  
“He’s fine.” She smiled her private smile again, and he mentally wiped out the goblin hoard with a flamethrower before they could get any louder. “I’ll contact him later.” She tilted her head, her expression switching back to a more public smile. “So,” she changed the subject without missing a beat. “What are we going to do while we’re here?”  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
Ariadne owned an apartment in a street behind the grounds of Trinity college. “I thought I should invest some of the money from Fischer in something that would give me a return, and I needed a safe house.” She shrugged when Arthur asked. “It belongs to the French identity, and she sometimes uses it for holiday rentals. Why else would I be here?” She added.  
  
  
He had to admit it was a reasonable cover, especially in a city like Dublin. Empty apartments suddenly being occupied could attract notice, which was why he tended to opt for more remote locations, houses set in parcels of land that meant less prying around him. “That’s a good thought.” He said aloud, setting the PASIV down.  
“Thank you,” she smiled at her own cleverness, rolling back her sleeve and settling on the couch. As he glanced over her, the tan on her arms, the small punctures where she’d obviously been using the PASIV in Yusuf’s den, he caught sight of a bruise on her upper arm, oval like a fingerprint, fading from black to blue.  
  
“What’s that?” He asked before he could stop himself. Ariadne looked down, and her cheeks coloured again as she tugged her sleeve over it.  
  
“I caught myself on something,” she lied, keeping her eyes down, her voice too fast and high for the truth. “It’s fine.”  
  
  
He let it drop, and passed her the lead without another word.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
She walked through his dream, an endless army base that branched and dead ended, with her gun in her hand, her eyes sharp and attentive.  
  
He watched her, trying to be cold, dispassionate and shut off. He thought of the bruise on her arm. He thought of her face when Eames’ message arrived. He crammed it into a ball, let it fill his head and wipe him out. Arthur faded out, and the point man came back.  
  
She shot two of the wolves before they reached her this time, and as a jaw closed around her neck she shot herself with a single bullet to the chest.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
_**Dublin/Manila**_

  
  
The next job he found them was an extraction on a Philippine government official, a man working in the office of the president believed to be selling secrets and influence to line his pockets. A quick appraisal led him to the conclusion that this would require an extractor as well as her and him, so he put out word on the Asian and Australasian scenes. Finally he got a message from the most experienced extractor in the area, a dour, serious man named Rhodes whom he’d worked with in the past, and managed to strike a deal.  
  
When he introduced Ariadne to him in the small apartment in Tondo that they’d made their base, her expression was wary. Perhaps her experience of Cobb was colouring her view, but she watched Rhodes with a keen eye, sticking to politeness when they talked and guarding her words. This remained their relationship until they began running scenarios with the PASIV, at which point he noticed her start to dig around Rhodes for more personal details, jobs he’d done, what his background was, and so on.  
  
  
He let it go, Rhodes was fine with handling it, until he came back to the apartment after a reconnaissance in Intramuros, opened the door and found Ariadne standing over a dreaming Rhodes, a PASIV lead in her hand.  
  
  
“What are you doing?” He slammed the door and strode over, taking the lead from her hand more roughly than he intended. Ariadne pulled back, her expression hardening.  
  
“He spends too much time using it. I wanted to know why. I wanted to make sure he’s safe for us to work with.” She hissed back. “Cobb—”  
  
  
He cut her off. “Rhodes is a somnacin addict, but he isn’t dangerous to dream with. You can’t go prying like this unless you want everyone in the business to avoid you like you have the plague.”  
  
“I wanted to make sure.” She snapped. “You didn’t warn me about Cobb.”  
  
She wasn’t going to drop it, that first experience colouring her as much as her natural curiosity. It was a benefit and a flaw, and he needed to push it in the right direction, but at that moment all he could think was she nearly fucked up their relationship with Rhodes, whom they desperately needed.  
  
  
“I didn’t get the chance,” he shot back. “He showed up with you and put you under. I couldn’t say it in front of his face, and if you think what he did didn’t bother me then you’re not remembering it correctly.” Her eyes widened, and his memory was suddenly full of the first time he touched her, her skin on his and her perfume in his mouth.  
  
  
“I have to know,” she persisted. “He could be doing anything down there.”  
  
“No, absolutely not. You don’t enter your colleagues' dreams without permission, understand? You don’t ask them personal questions, and you don’t give personal answers. You don’t!” he barked when she opened her mouth to argue. “Cobb was an exception, not the rule. I told you Rhodes was trustworthy. I background checked him, and I think he’s low risk. You trust me, don’t you?”  
  
She nodded, her face twisted into a frown. He stalked to his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out his dossier on Rhodes, dropping it on the surface with a slap. “Here, read it.” He bit off. “Take it, Ariadne.” He commanded when she hesitated, his tone so hard it felt like iron hitting flesh. She strode towards him, her chin raised, and snatched it up.  
  
  
“You—” her words failed for a moment. “Fine.” She turned her back, gone ramrod straight in her righteous temper, and stamped back to her model building table. The file hit the table with a whack, her chair scraped across the floor with deliberate sloppiness, and she dropped into it with a sulky thud, ignoring him and Rhodes as she ripped the pages open.  
  
  
Once the silence came he could hear the aftermath of his anger in his body, his breathing coming in short, fast spurts, his heart thumping, his hands clenched. He’d never lost his temper with her like that before, but then it’d never been warranted. He’d thought she had understood that this is just about the job, the result, the weighing of risk, not the splitting of white into black. If he’d failed to pass on even that then he’d royally fucked up. He needed to calm down, he thought sharply, forcing a controlled belly breath. He needed to let the lesson go in, her to make her peace with it, and not to sit around waiting while she did.  
  
  
_Work,_  he told himself,  _work is normal. Work redeems_.  
  
He sat down, took out his notes from prowling around the presidential complex, and forced himself to carry on.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
  
The carton of food put carefully on his desk broke his concentration.  
  
  
Ariadne was standing before him, her entire demeanor awkward as she put Rhodes’ dossier down next to it.  
  
  
“I apologise.” She said. “I was just concerned.” He leant back, watching her steadily as she lifted her chin, pushing the container towards him. “I got you some lunch.” She offered briskly. “You haven’t stopped to eat. It’s pancit bihon with chicken and pork.”  
  
“Thank you.” He inclined his head to her, meaning the apology, the food, and her consideration.  
  
“I noticed you enjoyed it when we ate out a couple of days ago.” She twisted her fingers together for a moment.  
  
“I did. Thank you for remembering.” He moved the point man aside. He’d done his work with her now, and Arthur could allow forgiveness in a way he couldn’t. “Will you join me?” He gestured to the chair she’d carefully avoided sitting in, and she hesitated, then made herself sit, picking up the bag with her own lunch and putting it carefully in front of her.  
  
  
As they ate she peeked over at him, slightly nervous but keeping their conversation general and light; the weather, which other dishes they’ve enjoyed, the Spanish colonial design of the city.  
  
The topic of Rhodes didn’t come up again, and by the end of the day they were back into rhythm, albeit vaguely self consciously.  


 

~*~

 


	4. Chapter 4

**_Manila/Sydney_**  
  
  
After Manila they separated for a while. Ariadne told him she was going back to Paris, and he’d found work in Dubai. He didn’t press her for any more details, nor did she ask him for any. In the privacy of his mind he felt unease at the way they’d argued, an unhappy fantasy that she was running away from him after the stilted progress they’d made in their working relationship since. She’d been cautious with him, delicate almost, and he found himself missing her casual intimacy with him. All the time he was in Dubai he felt as if he was working with a phantom limb, as if her presence was now so natural that being without it was like turning around to find that a familiar room he’d believed himself to be in had vanished. He put it away as best he could, refusing to check his phone or his mail every day, pulling the work around him in a cocoon so it drowned it out, but still, it crept in as certainly as the morning sun around the blinds of his hotel room.  
  
When he heard about an extraction based in Sydney he took it with only the briefest thought. It was simple, a good place for her to try out in a real job, and afterwards Sydney would be like a vacation for them. He squashed that thought abruptly as it came. If they took a break together it would be as friends at best, or at least he hoped so. Some part of him was still feeling raw after Manila, and it made him feel strange and queasy as he sent her message offering her the work. What if she said no? He kept thinking, picking up his cellphone, putting it down, over and over until he made himself stop.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
The message arrived the next day, a brief, bald  _yes_. The tension in his gut unwound when he read it, but he refused to examine quite why the relief was so great, and why he felt so pleased that in a few days they would be together again.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
Ariadne arrived at the modern rental office off George street dressed for the warm climate, her sheer layered shirt offering him the hint of the tank she was wearing underneath, and her feet in a pair of sandals. It was a studied business casual, more towards the casual than he’d gone, but still, the tempting peek of skin was lovely, even if he wouldn't do more than file the image away for later use.  
  
  
She put down the coffee she was carrying, and calmly offered him the cup she had in her other hand. There was still a definite unease in her, and he resolved to banish it as soon as he could, even before he could ask himself why it mattered.  
  
  
“It’s good to see you,” he said truthfully. Ariadne hesitated for a moment before she replied.  
  
“You too. I, err, I’ve had some time to think.” She took a deep breath and he felt his skin go cold in anticipation of the worst. “I shouldn’t have been so awkward after what happened with Rhodes. You were right. Everyone’s said it. And I was afraid that you’d not want to work with afterwards, because when I realised,” she screwed up her face. “I know I apologised, but I want to say it again. I was so busy being righteous that I forgot what I’d asked you to do. So I’m sorry. And thank you, for protecting me.”  
  
  
He swallowed, wetting his lips as she looked at him. It was better than he’d hoped. She’d missed him too. He wanted to grab her into a hug suddenly, but his good sense restrained him.  
  
“I’m glad you understand now. I could have handled it better,” he admitted honestly. “But I will never let us work with someone whose risk to us outweighs their use. Cobb was the exception, and we weren’t working together then, so I couldn’t assume to influence you. This is different.”  
  
She blinked, a flutter of sooty lashes then nodded, letting out a whoosh of relief. “We both fucked up a bit, right?” Her lips turned up a little, a cautious grin that could fall back easily.  
  
  
“You could say that.” Her grin widened, and he felt himself responding in kind. She was too transparent at times, and that scared him more than he liked to think. But honesty with him could only be to their advantage, so he held it close and let the relief cover the fear with its smothering blanket.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
He ran Ariadne through extraction scenario after extraction scenario. He watched her try every gambit she could, lying, fighting, hiding and distracting; building more intricate mazes and trying to lose his projections in loops and endless staircases that could expand and contract at will. She was getting better, even if she still flinched shooting his projections and had a terrible tendency to act faster than she thought at times.  
  
“Is there any way to induce the non violent paradigm in a violent subconscious?” She asked one day, looking up from the model she was building, glue gun in hand and holding a piece of cardboard in the other.  
  
  
Arthur jerked his head up from his laptop where he had been reading the mark’s high school Facebook page. The guy was an inventor, an engineer by training, working on a new solar cell that someone wanted the specs for, and Arthur was busy trying to trace his business partners back to their meeting.  
  
  
“What?” He frowned. “Oh, well. In general, not really. It depends on the training the mark has had, and their natural inclinations towards defending themselves. You can trigger changes by altering the dream as well.”  
  
“I understand. But if I wanted to make the mark drop their guard, stop attacking, could I do that?”  
  
“Theoretically. Fischer did because he’d been emotionally triggered and given a catharsis. It makes the psyche need time to regroup. If you can do that, you could shift it. But it would take a large trigger, and for that you need a connection to the mark that we just don’t have. Even a forgery would have limited effect, because of the nature of what’s required, and a trained subject is harder, because their unconscious is taught to be more alert.”  
“What might it take?” She fixed him with her most searching look.  
  
“In my opinion,” he stressed, “a large, positive emotional shift that overrides everything else. Love might do it, for example.” He felt his words trail off in his mouth.  
  
“I see,” Ariadne’s expression turned secret and soft, and it felt wonderful to see it.  _Damn it,_  he snarled at himself.  _Change the subject._  
  
  
“How’s the maze going?” He got up, brisk and all business, and the matter was dropped.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
“Well, here’s to us.” Ariadne tapped her beer bottle against his, her smile bright and triumphant.  
  
“Here’s to you,” he amended, “First extraction. That’s quite a landmark.”  
  
“I wasn’t bad, was I?” She rolled her head back, smiling at the sky. “I feel amazing. Is that normal?” She swigged her beer, wriggling her toes in the sand and looking around them, watching the party further down the beach who had a fire lit, a small group of guitar players strumming tunes for the crowd to dance to, and a barbecue smelling of roasting meat.  
  
“It is,” he rested his hands on the sand, his legs straight out in front of him, allowing himself to grin back at her as she chuckled. “Why do you think Eames heads for the nearest casino when he’s done? It makes you feel invincible for a while. Like you can beat the Fates.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that. I just feel like,” she sighed happily, “like I’m full of energy and it won’t ever end. It was never like this before.”  
  
  
Arthur took a sip of his drink and raised his eyebrows. “It’s because it was you who did it. It’ll pass, believe me. Perhaps you should go and work it off.” He gestured to the dancers. Ariadne watched them for a while, a slow smile forming on her face.  
  
  
“Yes. Come on,” she stood, holding out her hand to him.  
  
“I don’t really think,” he started, but she grabbed his hand and gave it a yank.  
  
“Help me get rid of it.” She beamed, and he let her lead him down the beach.  
  
  
The guitarists were playing a fast tune, something bright with a jumping beat. Ariadne stopped at the edge of the crowd, catching his other hand and began to dance, swaying and wriggling her shoulders. “Come on,” she pleaded gently, and it wound around him. He could let go just this once.  
  
  
The sand shifted and rutted beneath his feet as they moved together, bodies at a respectable distance to begin with, then Ariadne’s arms wound around his neck, and her body was brushing his and before he could stop himself he was holding her waist in a light touch, rolling into her as her breasts touched his chest. She was so close, so warm and tempting, her adorable smile just for him as they moved together. She was so close, so supple, soft and inviting, surely it wouldn’t hurt to kiss her. Her lips were full, beckoning in the firelight as her eyes glittered and her skin glowed, his body reacting before he could stop it, he started to lean into her, closing his eyes, riding the rush, the glory, the beauty of her, just as the music stopped.  
  
  
The jolt made him pull back, sense rushing in where temptation had been, pushing it out with a violent punch.  _No, he couldn’t. Don’t shit where you eat. You can’t confuse things. It’s dangerous._  
  
  
He snapped his eyes open. Ariadne was looking at him with a faint furrow between her eyebrows, confusion in her eyes as he leaned back. He let her go abruptly and stepped back, making her arms drop and moving to a respectable distance again. “I need another drink,” he said horsely. “Do you want one?” Ariadne’s mouth opened and closed, her features shuttering suddenly as she rested her arms at her sides.  
  
  
“Sure. I’d love one.” She hurried the words out. He turned away before he did or said anything else, making for the coolers piled on the other side of the fire. He wanted to plunge his head into the piles of melting ice, freeze out the temptation that had just veered far too close for comfort. As it was, he settled for holding his hands in the water until they went numb, the feeling distracting and flushing out the last vestige of heat he could feel under his skin.  
  
  
When he got back to the dancers, Ariadne was back in their midst, a sunburned man with sun and salt bleached dark blond hair twirling her around, catching her hips and bringing her flush with him, letting her roll her body into his, then letting her go, twirling her again, repeating, over and over.  _Vertical expression of horizontal desire,_  he told himself coldly, and turned his back.  _She'd be fine_ _, and she would be safe ._  
  
  
He chugged both beers, and ended up talking to a girl named Lori. The sex was frantic, abrupt, her pressed into a blanket laid down on the sand in the dark, a long way from the party. Him pumping his hips, one hand creased in her golden blonde hair, trying to make the desire leave with his orgasm. He went home with her, but slipped away after she fell asleep.  
  
  
Ariadne had sent him a short message, which he read in the orange light of the sodium street lamps in the taxi back to his hotel.  
  
_À bientôt._  
  
  
He stared at it for a long moment, feeling the knot in his chest. Then he slowly tapped out an honest reply:  
  
_Certainement._  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
_**Sydney/London**_  
  
  
If Sydney was a vacation, London was horror. It should have been simple. A two layer extraction on a Chinese businesswoman, Ariadne holding the first while he took the second. Instead it turned out her natural suspicion played a stronger hand than even he’d anticipated, her subconscious was riled then turned angry, throwing him out even as he grabbed the names of her contacts with blood slippery fingers.  
  
  
He came to in the hotel room to find Ariadne already awake, her hands shaking and her face white, and before she’d said a word he knew that her experience had been equally appalling. But there wasn’t time to talk, Zhu Fan was stirring despite the sedatives and they had to leave before she woke.  
  
  
They made it to the alley behind the hotel before her security caught up with them, the scuffle of running feet on concrete making him whip round, pushing Ariadne behind him instinctively as he reached back for his gun.  
  
  
“Take the PASIV and run.” He ordered her as the three men rounded the corner, backing them up to the main street, glancing back for a split second to see her hesitate. “Now, Ariadne.” He raised his Glock and fired, the pop of the silencer still impossibly loud. One man crumpled, but the others didn’t pause. The second he caught in the knee, but the third was on him before he could fire, knocking his gun from his hands with a sharp blow. Arthur rolled back from the blow, rebalancing to punch the man in the jaw with an uppercut, then dragging his head down to slam it into his knee. The man responded with a punch to Arthur’s gut, forcing him to let go but not felling him, the pain an echo against the adrenaline in his blood. He kicked out, striking the man’s groin, then his knee, pushing him down to the floor. He was preparing for the knockout kick to the head when he heard a woman scream in the street and his entire body began to run even before he’d given it the command.  
  
  
_No, no, no_ , he was chanting to himself as he sprinted out to the front of the hotel, skidding to a halt when he saw a small cluster of people gathered around something on the ground, a glimpse of small limbs and brown hair on the ground catching in his vision, and suddenly he was desperate and terrified. “I’m a doctor,” he barked in what he hoped would pass as an English accent. “Let me through.” He shoved into the group of muttering people, pushing them aside to find Ariadne sprawled on the ground, her hands sticky red and clutched to a dark splatter on her abdomen as she screwed up her eyes in pain.  _Oh god oh god oh god_ , his brain screamed, but the point man took charge, forcing him to outward calm and control.  
  
  
He dropped to his knees next to her. “What happened? I need to see, Miss.” He cautiously began to unlock her fingers as she choked a scream into a whine, panting out her words.  
  
“Man. With a knife. Slashed me. Did a defence. Ran when lady screamed.” He glanced around looking for the weapon, but it had vanished. Someone must have plucked it up in the chaos of everyone coming to have a look.  
  
  
“We’ve called an ambulance and the police,” a well dressed woman with a neat accent interrupted him. “The doorman tried to chase the man who attacked her, but he didn’t manage to catch him. They have CCTV though, so he’ll get caught.” She finished with relish.  
  
  
Arthur peeled open Ariadne’s fingers and gently lifted her shirt. The slash was bleeding freely, passing through the skin and the fat beneath and nicking the fascia over her abdominal muscles, a gaping, throbbing maw of red, yellow and grey He needed to stem the flow, enough that he could call off the ambulance and get them out of here; something clean, absorbent and easy to get hold of—  
  
“Get me some sanitary towels, now,” he ordered.  
  
“What fo—”  
  
“To stem the bleeding,” he snapped. “Get some from the hotel, now.” He grasped Ariadne’s sticky fingers in his hand. “Hold on, it’s going to be fine.” He promised, desperately trying to stay as calm as he could. She tried to smile, a weak little shape getting lost in her pain. “Thank you,” she managed through her tight lips, as someone shoved a bulky plastic packet over his shoulder and into his eyeline.  
  
He snatched it, ripping open each infuriating package, and then gently laying the absorbent side onto the cut. “There, hold that for me,” he placed her hand on top of the improvised dressing, pushing it down with an even pressure. Ariadne was breathing better now, and the fact she was still conscious was a blessing. When he touched her face she was warm, and despite the pain she seemed not to have entered shock yet.  
  
  
“I’ll take her to the hospital. She needs medical attention immediately. Fetch my car at once.” He dug the keys to the rental car from his pocket and flung them towards the doorman lurking on the edge of the sidewalk.  
  
“The ambulance won’t be long, love.” The hotel receptionist said from the edge of the crowd.  
  
“No, we need to go now. I’m going to move you now, Miss.” He leaned over Ariadne, speaking clearly for the crowd as well as her. “Press down on the dressing. I’ll try to make it as easy as possible.”  
  
Ariadne compressed her lips and gave a tight little nod. He bent over, sliding one arm under her shoulders and one under her knees. “Tilt yourself towards me,” he murmured. “On three. One, two,” he lifted her and he felt her teeth clamp around the lapel of his jacket, stifling the noise in her chest. “Good,” he encouraged. “You’re doing well. Move aside, please.” The crowd parted, twittering anxiously as they saw her. Arthur ignored them, making to the SUV as it rolled to a stop, the doorman popping the locks open and running around to help put Ariadne on the back seat. She was so light, and so damn fragile his heart clenched in his chest.  
  
  
Arthur could hear sirens wailing in the distance now. He didn’t have time to lose. “I’ll take her to the nearest A&E.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.  
  
“St. Thomases?” The receptionist helpfully supplied through the open window.  
  
“Yes. Please let the police know.” He threw the car into gear and sped off down the street, trying to drive as smoothly as possible, watching the spectators shrink in his rear view mirror. He’d have to get hold of the security tapes from the street and the hotel somehow, or set someone on it. He had to get back to the house in Islington, he needed to see her injury properly, see if he could stitch it or he needed to call someone, get her some pain relief and antibiotics, he had to focus on getting out of this and away from Zhu Fan; everything swirled and rolled in his brain, background noise against the horrible possibility that she might have died, could still die, and he’d be responsible somehow.  
  
  
“Hold on Ariadne, OK? I’m going to help you.” He promised. “Talk to me.”  
  
“Are you really a doctor?” She asked in a weak voice.  
  
“No. Guess again.” He wished he could see her in the rear view mirror. “Keep talking to me, don’t go to sleep.”  
  
“What happened with Zhu Fan?”  
  
“I got it, barely. Did she hurt you?”  
  
“Apart from this?” Ariadne tried to laugh and it broke into pieces. “Tortured me, in the dream. Put out one of my eyes, could feel it hanging on my face. Cut off my hands. Pain, forever it felt like. Worse than this.” He gripped the wheel, furious all over again.  _He should have been more thorough. Fuck._  “Did she hurt you?” Ariadne wheezed.  
  
“Yeah.” He answered shortly. “She was angry. I underestimated her. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It isn’t always a good ending, you told me that. I chose. Wasn’t real.”  
  
“She hurt you,” he forced his voice to be calm. “I could have prevented that.”  
  
“Taught me the disarm.” Ariadne reasoned. “I just fucked it up. Caught me when I tried to do the body defence. Should have turned further.”  
  
“We’ll practice when you’re well.”  
  
“Promise?” Ariadne mumbled.  
  
“I promise.” She was fading out, it was no good, he needed help. He stabbed the bluetooth phone connection button on the steering wheel, and announced “Cornwallis,” in a loud voice.  
  
“Hmm?” Ariadne slurred. The sound of a distant phone ringing was filling the car.  
  
  
“I’m getting us some help. Just relax and stay awake,” he ordered her, as there was a click and the call picked up.  
  
“What?” A sharp English voice demanded.  
  
“Cornwallis, it’s Arthur. I need an urgent consult. Knife wound to the stomach.” He heard Cornwallis mutter as he took a corner.  
  
  
“Five k.”  
  
“Done,” Arthur replied immediately, and Cornwallis inhaled with surprise.  
  
“That urgent. Well, come by now. Nadia will be out the front.” He hung up without saying anything else.  
  
  
“Who was that?” Ariadne sounded drowsier by the minute.  
  
“A medical guy. Surgeon. He’s going to help you.” Arthur barely missed a red light, taking the direction signs towards Harley Street.  
  
“Don’t leave me,” she mumbled. “Scared. I’m so scared.”  
  
“I won’t.” He wished he could touch her. She was snuffling, a wet rasp of tears. He’d never heard her cry before and it was as bad as Zhu Fan’s projections peeling off his skin. “I won’t, I promise.”  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
“Well,” Cornwallis appeared in a green surgical gown and cap, stripping off his gloves as he came through the door. “She was bloody lucky.” He laughed wryly at his own joke. “Bloody, get it?”  
  
  
“Very droll.” Arthur replied, resisting the urge to back Cornwallis into a wall and demand answers. He’d tried to go into the small operating theatre with her, but Cornwallis had refused on pain of not helping Ariadne, leaving Arthur to grasp her hand until she was anaesthetised and wheeled in, being left by himself to pace the corridor outside. “Is she OK?”  
  
“It was someone trying to stab her, and she knocked it off course. It’s deeper where the stab would have been, which is where the nick is. Another millimeter or so and it would have gone through her abdominal wall to the muscle and maybe the large intestine, then we’d be having a very different conversation right now. As it is, she has a fifteen centimetre incised wound across her lower abdomen. Two layers of stitches, one for the fascia, one for the skin; intravenous antibiotics, a little blood, a whack of diazepam and some pain relief. Cash or card, sir?” Cornwallis smiled obsequiously.  
  
  
Arthur took his wallet out, selecting the credit card that belonged to this identity. It would show up on his bill as having been spent in Cornwallis’ legitimate clinic, so that wasn’t a concern. While Ariadne had been in surgery he’d taken time out from his pacing to call Saxena in Mumbai, setting him on erasing them from the camera records from the street. He’d barely haggled the price down, shocking Saxena and himself, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. What was another few thousand if it got Zhu Fan as far from them both as possible and saved them both?  
  
  
Cornwallis handed the card back together with the receipt and a bow of the head. “A pleasure doing business with you. Take her home, give her fluids, clean the wound every two days and redress it, but don’t get it wet otherwise. No heavy lifting or bending for about a month or you’ll ruin my embroidery. Give her these if she’s in pain,” he handed Arthur a bottle of tablets, then a bottle of capsules, “and these are some more antibiotics. Get her to eat and drink something when you can. Don’t leave her for twenty four hours, and don’t move her any more than you have to. If she has a fever, can’t swallow, bleeds again or swells up and goes blue, call me. Otherwise, don’t. Nadia!” He called.  
  
  
The theatre doors opened and Nadia, Cornwallis’ nurse, wheeled Ariadne out on a bed. She was barely awake, her eyes pulsing open and closed as she groped one hand out from the blankets. “Arthur,” she rasped, clutching when he gave her his hand.  
  
“I’m here. Are you OK?”  
  
“She’s had some help breathing. Dries out the throat.” Cornwallis said when Arthur shot him a sharp look. “She’s had water, just to check she can swallow. Nadia, get a bottle of water and a straw for our patient as well.” He sighed when Arthur began to glower.  
  
  
“Gunna be all right,” Ariadne’s mouth was thick around the words. “Thank you for staying.” He felt the relief boiling in his bones as she gave him a dopey smile.  
“You’re welcome. I’m going to get us back to the house now, OK? Get you to bed, let you rest and get well.” He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. She was warm, and sleepy, and for the first time in over a decade he felt his eyes prickle. He didn’t know how close he’d come to losing her, and he didn’t want to consider it. All that mattered was that he hadn’t, and that he kept her safe from now on.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
He laid Ariadne in her bed, carefully pulling the covers over her. “Are you in pain?” He asked, putting one hand on her forehead as she winced. She was warm, and slightly sweaty. A cold washcloth would fix that.  
  
  
“Yes,” she managed sleepily. “And thirsty. Water, please.”  
  
  
In the cool light of the bathroom he realised his hands were still marked with dried blood.  _Her blood._  He felt his stomach tighten and he made it to the toilet just in time to vomit with a hard, brutal efficiency. He made himself splash his face with the coldest water he could get from the faucet, shed his stained jacket and shirt, the smell of rust sticking to his skin. Then he calmly made himself dampen a cloth, fill a glass of water and go back to her.  
  
  
  
“You OK?” She mumbled as he draped the cloth on her forehead. “I heard a noise.”  
  
“I’m fine. Here, drink,” he held the glass to her lips, tipping it so she could swallow. “Better? Do you want some of the pain meds?”  
  
  
Ariadne nodded, restless on her pillows. He shook out two of the fat white pills and held them to her mouth, offering her more water which she swallowed greedily. “Do you want anything else? Are you hungry?”  
  
  
“No, I’m just hurting. I want to sleep and it hurts too much to. Stay,” she grabbed his hand and clutched it. “Talk to me. Take my mind off it.”  
  
  
He looked down at her, her waxy complexion and pain creased face as she held on stabbing into him. So he sat down next to her, and wiped the washcloth over her cheeks. “What would you like to talk about?” He asked gently.  
  
“Anything.”  
  
  
“Tell me about you, then.” He soothed. “Tell me everything. Where did you grow up?”  
  
“You already know all about me. You did a background check. You have a file.” She complained. “I know you do. You always do.”  
  
“All right, I do. I know where you were born, and when. I know where you went to school, I know what your grades were, and where you went to university. I know your medical history. Your family history, your parents names, your brother and sister’s and your nephews’ names. I know what shoe size you take.” Ariadne snorted and gave a small grin.  
  
“You’d make one hell of a stalker, you know that?”  
  
“It has been said.” He replied as lightly as he could. “But for everything I know, I don’t know much about you. So tell me something I can’t have found out. Please,” he added. Something in him wanted to know she trusted him enough, even after everything, and this was the only way he could think of to keep her close, to hold her to him and comfort her.  
  
  
“When I was twelve,” Ariadne murmured, “my parents got divorced. You knew that though, right?” He nodded, refolding the washcloth on her forehead. “I wanted my mom to stay, so badly. But my dad, he never let her do anything if he couldn’t control it somehow. He would get sick on purpose, can you believe that? He would take her car keys and hide her purse. He would tell her he cared, then turn around and throw tantrums like a kid. I never,” Ariadne licked her dry mouth, and Arthur offered her more water. “He made her life terrible. She had to walk on eggshells around him. It was like living in a war zone. You never knew if it would be a peaceful day or one where they’d fight. So she left him.”  
  
His heart lurched again, the thought of her, small and scared making his sympathy wash through him.  
  
“I’m sorry.” He grasped her hand uselessly. “My parents,” his tongue faltered. The long habit of lying was so hard to shake. “My dad had an affair, when I was eight and my sister was ten. He thought my mom’s family looked down on him, because we lived in the city and he taught high school.” The words fell out onto the quilt, landing in a sour heap. “They tried to patch it up for years, but it never worked out. So she left, and we went to live with my grandparents in Maine. It was pretty shitty for a while.”  
  
  
She stroked his hand for a moment, nothing but empathy in her silence. “I know. We stayed with my dad. He got better with us. He paid for me to go to Paris to study. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just...I can’t let anyone treat me like he did my mom. He nearly broke her to pieces. I want to live my own life. I wanted to get away from it.”  
  
  
He reached out and touched her cheek, smoothing the strands of hair away from where they’d fallen. “You did. You don’t have to live like that again. You’re in control.”  
  
“We’re both pretty fucked up, huh?” She smiled weakly. “We should get therapy. We’d make someone a fortune.”  
  
  
He chuckled in spite of himself. “I can think of better ways to spend our earnings.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Travelling, for one. I love to travel. I’ve seen so much of the world. There are some beautiful places to go.”  
  
“Do you ever go on vacation?”  
  
“Sometimes. Would you like a vacation?”  
  
“With you?” She was drowsing now, her head lolling under his touch.  
  
“If you like.” He replied softly. “You’re good company. I wouldn't say no.” She laughed a little, her head resting on his hand. “Where shall we go?”  
  
  
“Somewhere quiet.” She said, sleep creeping over her and making her words indistinct. “Somewhere pretty. Take me somewhere you like that’s like that.”  
  
“OK.” He wiped her forehead again, then very cautiously pressed a peck of a kiss to the spot between her eyes. “We’ll do that. Rest, Ariadne. I’ll be right here.”  
He fell asleep on the floor next to her bed, her hand still tight in his.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
He burned his blood stained clothes and their identity papers in the back yard, using a metal bucket. The air in London was greasy, thick with the smell of barbecue charcoal and heavy with August sweat, so one more burning smell wouldn’t be noticed, and he couldn’t risk them being traced. Then he booked a ferry journey, packed their bags, and they left London, and hopefully Zhu Fan, behind.  
  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
_**London/Copenhagen**_

  
  
It took a train, a ferry, another train and a car ride to take them from London to Arthur’s safe house outside Grenaa, a small, black timbered cabin set in the middle of low land and forest. It was quiet, and all the sound was birds singing and the trees rustling in the wind, and when he carried Ariadne from the car to the cabin she turned her face up in relief.  
  
“I promised you quiet, didn’t I?” He said as she relaxed in his hold. “We have no neighbours for a few miles, the main road is a way back, and we can walk to the ocean when you feel well enough.”  
  
“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I just want some time to get back to full strength.”  
  
“I understand.” He settled her on the couch. She’d been having nightmares, and he couldn’t say if it was the medication, her experience or both. He didn’t mind taking a respite if that was what she needed to heal both her body and her mind.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
As she recovered, slowly, haltingly moving by herself, taking less medicine, he did what he could to help her. He let her sleep in, gave her glasses of full fat milk and home cooked meals rich with fruits and vegetables, letting her tease him that she’d never met such a gifted man in the kitchen. He refused to let her use the PASIV until she stopped taking her pain medication, but he allowed himself to consult remotely on a few interesting jobs. When she complained of being bored he passed her some details, letting her design a level that he sold on to his clients in turn.  
When she woke up in the white nights he would wake too, sitting outside with her in the dim light, listening to the birds tweet in confusion as she talked, sometimes touching on what happened in London, other times meandering around the subject of her favourite books, movies, music and philosophy. And he found himself talking more, thinking about himself, revealing more than he’d done in such a long time he couldn’t recall.  
  
When the day came, he cut out her stitches, leaving behind nothing but a red line scored into her skin where the knife had traced it. Ariadne looked at it, running her thumb across it, but said nothing.  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
Once she could walk, sit up and stand unaided, Ariadne insisted that he teach her more real world self defence, her chin jutting out when he balked.  
  
  
“I wanted to learn everything, and I mean it.” She pushed. “I don’t want to face something like this,” she waved at her stomach, “again.”  
  
“There aren’t any guarantees it won’t.” He replied, trying to be reasonable. “I know you’re scared. I know it was a bad experience. But you can rise above it. It doesn’t have to shape everything.”  
  
“Then help me rise above it, Arthur.”  
  
  
He put his coffee down and examined her for a moment. She was standing with her fists clenched, her slim frame filling out from when she’d been unable to eat and her weight had plummeted alarmingly for a while. Her colour was back, her skin creamy and fresh, not waxy and yellow as the pain meds and lack of food had made it.  
  
“OK,” he stood up. “Let’s go outside. Landing on the floor in here will hurt more.”  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
She faced him steadily as he took up a combative stance. “Inside defence,” he said calmly, throwing a straight attack to her face which she knocked away. “Again,” he repeated the move, watching her deflect and dodge him. “Outside defence,” he changed tactic, aiming a circular blow. Her arm shot up, bent at the elbow, and blocked. “Again,” he threw a wide hook to the side of her face this time, which she caught. “Defend and counter.” He switched up, and her left hand deflected, aiming a punch to his throat.  
  
  
He ran through all her attacks and defenses, one after another, until she was glowing with sweat, but her face never broke from its fierce concentrated expression. He pushed on, knowing she’d never stop until she was satisfied, fetching a wooden spoon to play act as a knife, then a gun, showing her the basic disarm at the wrist again, then elaborating.  
  
It was fine, in fact. She was an attentive student, stubborn and determined to fix the techniques in her head. He relaxed, and perhaps he shouldn’t have.  
  
  
She had just released herself from a bear hug, pulling his fingers and wriggling free, and he had grabbed the wooden spoon from his waistband, jabbing it into her stomach before he could even think. “Disarm,” he commanded, and she hesitated.  
  
“Ariadne, disarm me.” He said slowly. She was staring at the spoon, her hands open and raised, her body stopped in place. “Disarm. Me.” He pushed the spoon into her abdomen, and she raised her head. Her face was twisting and relaxing, as if her expression couldn’t properly reflect what she was feeling. “Stop thinking. Stop remembering. Disarm me.” He repeated gently.  
  
Her left hand shot forward, clamping around his forearm in a tight grip. She rocked forward with her upper body, twisting her hips to the right, pushing his arm across his body, forcing it up with both hands. Her right hand fastened over his, pulling his hand sideways, yanking his wrist down until he let go. Her knee slammed upwards as she punched at his throat, over and over, grabbing at his ears to pull him down to meet her knee.  
  
  
“Stop!” He jerked out of her hold, grabbing her wrists and rotating them out to stop her attack. “You did it.” She was panting, her eyes and hair wild, her face bright red and sticky with perspiration. “Ariadne, take a breath. Now.” She looked at him as if he was a stranger for a second, then complied with a rattling inhale.  
  
“That’s what happened, wasn’t it?” He carried on in a low voice. Her arms shook in his hold, and for one terrible moment he thought she was going to weep. “You froze. You saw the knife and froze, didn’t you?”  
  
“I,” she croaked. “I was too slow. I knew what to do, and I just stopped.”  
  
“It’s normal. We only dealt with knife attacks in dreams. You were awake. You panicked. But you got away. That’s the only rule there is. Stay alive, however you do it. Stay alive.”  
  
Ariadne shook harder, and a sudden instinctive needle of compassion jabbed him. He dropped her arms and pulled her to him, arms around her shoulders as she breathed into his chest, her heart hammering and her body tight. He held her in his grip, letting her fist the fabric of his shirt, curse and bang her head against his ribs, until it passed, and she slumped into him.  
  
  
“Stay alive, right?” She murmured.  
  
“That’s all there is.” He stroked her back in long sweeps on his hands. “That’s what it’s all for. Stay alive.”  


 

~*~

  
  
They stayed until the summer began to fade, Ariadne working on her hand to hand and shooting skills, aiming at tin cans and bottles for practice, Arthur keeping a close watch on the road. He’d heard mutters rising in the last month that someone was casting around for him and her in Europe, someone keen to shake them down, and it seemed that the idyll was either going to have to end, or be ended for them.  
  
  
“Would you like to go back to the USA?” He asked late one early September night. Ariadne looked up from the book she was reading, holding her page with her finger tucked inside the book.  
  
“Do we have a job?” The hint of eagerness in her voice was refreshing. She was coming back to herself, the dream worker ready to take on the world he’d met back in Paris.  
  
  
“I’m looking around. Eames is in New York, and I think I might see if he has something on the boil.”  
  
“Great. I’ll book a hotel.” Ariadne was starting to smile, her eyes lighting up at the thought of a trip.  
  
  
“Actually, I have a place. You can stay with me. If you like.” He added hurriedly as her eyes widened. They’d always stayed in separate places for jobs before, and truthfully he wasn’t quite sure what had prompted him to offer. “Unless you’re sick of me after this place.”  
  
“No! No,” Ariadne wet her lips quickly. “I’d like that. Thank you.” Her smiled softened, and it caught in his chest for a moment. He was terrified, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to look away.  


 

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

_**Copenhagen/New York**_  
  
  
Arthur’s apartment was in Morningside Heights, on the top floor of building tucked in above 111th street. Ariadne wrinkled her nose at the unaired smell that wafted out of the door when he opened it, but nonetheless she wandered in, glancing around with open curiosity.  
  
  
“There are two bedrooms,” Arthur said as he shut and bolted the door. “Pick whichever you like. I fixed it up so they have a small bathroom each, so we won’t need to share.” He turned around to find Ariadne had gravitated to the far wall of the main room, and she was looking out of the windows at the view of Morningside Park beyond. The trees were rich with flame colours, leaves spiralling and drifting in the wind , and as almost without noticing she dropped into the wide window seat, her face softening and a small smile coming to her lips. He stopped, the keys in his hand cold and making his palm sticky where he was clutching them, quite aware that he was going to need to break the spell she was under, but at the same time unwilling to and stop having this chance to just watch her watching the world.  
  
  
He cleared his throat noisily. “The kitchen is through here,” he announced loudly, and Ariadne’s head turned sharply.  
  
  
“Sorry. This is charming,” she got up slowly, crossing the wooden floor, her boot soles tapping in the quiet as she glanced around again. “What’s this?” Her eyes squinted a fraction, and too late Arthur realised she’d zeroed in on the wall of family photos he’d always meant to remove, but somehow never quite could bring himself to. He knew it was sentimental to even have kept this place, let alone left personal mementos, but sometimes when he was a billion miles away from here, between hotel rooms, conference centres, departure lounges and aircraft cabins, it was a comfort to think that in some corner of the world there was a place that was his, where he could hold his life as safe as if it was between his cupped hands, a place where all the versions of himself had been and could be, a folded page corner in the story of his existence.  
  
Ariadne had moved right up to them, and was examining each picture with her keen eye. She had unconsciously raised one hand, letting it hover over an image of himself and his sister building a sandfort on the beach in Maine, squinting at the camera with plump cheeked smiles, his sister’s hair in thin bunches and his toothpick thin arms wrapped around a pail of seawater for the moat.  
  
“This your family, isn’t it?” She said quietly, blessedly not looking at him as he fidgeted. “I thought they were just to make this place look more like someone lived here, like the fake pictures they put in frames to sell them, but…” She trailed off as she put her fingertips on his baby self’s pale pigeon chest. “This is you,” she almost seemed to be speaking to herself.  
  
  
Arthur felt his body tense, the kneejerk response to deny, to lie and cut off that he’d trained himself into when someone grazed too close to the facts of his life pulling at his tongue. But he’d brought her into the apartment in the full knowledge of what this place meant and what it contained, a privilege he’d not accorded anyone else since his father died and he’d bought the place for himself.  
  
  
Ariadne turned her gaze to him, and her hand fell as she studied his face.  
  
“I’m sorry, I know,” she murmured.  
  
  
“It is me,” he said slowly, and a painful wave of shyness rose up in him suddenly. He was letting her in, and somehow he wanted to let her and push her back all at once. “That’s my sister,” he managed, touching the glass gently. “Anna,” he finished before Ariadne could ask. He wet his lips nervously, then pointed to the photo to the left. “My mom and dad on their wedding day. They got married at City Hall. My mom saved her bouquet, dried it out and wrapped it in tissue. It's in a box here somewhere, unless Anna took it. That’s my mom’s mom and dad. Gee and Pop, we called them.” He unhooked the picture of them sitting on the porch of their house in Northeast Harbour, hands clasped and their skin tanned from a summer of sailing. Ariadne took it carefully, holding it with both hands.  
  
  
“They look nice,” she volunteered.  
  
  
“They were. Summers we would stay with them, go out in their boat, go swimming, play on the beach.” Arthur took the picture back. “They were generous people,” he added as he looked at their faces, remembering how they’d taken care of Anna and himself even as they grew into their teens, offering money for college tuitions and trips, sending gifts each holiday if they couldn’t visit, never failing to open their lives and their home for them all. How his father had chafed at them, the arguments that had simmered beneath the surface of what he had experienced as perfect. He rehung the picture before memory could take over. “And this is my dad’s mom and dad. Grandma and grandpa, when they went to the World’s Fair in Flushing.” The colours had faded from the soda pop brightness he remembered, but he could still see the bright blue of the pool around the Unisphere, his grandpa’s thick knotted green tie and the orange of his grandma’s best dress, a nubbly fabric he could recall from sitting on her knee on their Sunday visits.  
  
  
“Thank you, Ariadne said hesitantly as she handed the picture back. “I know it’s not— private is private, I remember you saying.” She looked at him, her luminous golden eyes and her quick, clever hands, the hint of anxiety and the note of disbelief in her voice, fumbling her words as she took in the privilege she’d been granted, perhaps not quite knowing why. The only answer he would have been able to give had she asked was  _I trust you._  
  
  
Instead he put the picture back, straightening it a fraction just so he could take a second to put his shields back into place, to let himself feel contained again. He felt naked somehow, as if he was baring his throat to her, but instead of screeching fear he felt a thread of calm. He did trust her. She would hold these things like he did, cupped in her hands, sealed with her fingers.  
  
  
“There are fresh linens in the closet in the hall,” he picked up where he’d left off, talking to the wall before he turned back to her. “We can order in, or go get some groceries tonight. I’ll turn the refrigerator back on and,” he trailed off as she gave a wide, almost nervous smile.  
  
“Sure, sure; we can get some groceries. I can cook. Any bedroom, you said?” She gathered up her bags.  
  
“Yes,” he gestured down the hall. “I’m going to unpack, take a shower and get settled. We can go after that.”  
  
“OK,” Ariadne said in a bright voice. “I’ll see you shortly.” She vanished down the hall, gently closing the door of his parents’ old room behind her.  
  
Arthur let out the breath he felt like he’d been holding under his ribs since they’d arrived, a gust of air from his mouth that seemed to unwind every taut muscle from his scalp to his feet.  _He hadn’t made a mistake,_  he told himself with relief.  _It was OK._  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
  
In the days that followed, Ariadne commandeered the window seat as her spot, something that made him feel bizarrely content to see. He would come in from fetching coffee and pastries, or checking in with one of his contacts, or taking his midday run, to find her sitting there, her profile sharp against the fall grey sky, head down as she sketched or read.  
  
  
She had taken to wearing a soft grey sweater, oversized on her small frame, the clothing equivalent of warm blanket or a mug of tea, he’d catch himself thinking when he saw her. Her hair fell in waves down her shoulders, pushed and bunched to one side or left wild and haloing her with fluffy strands in the sunlight. Her bare feet would be stretched out in front of her, pale toes curled against the cushions, her concentration absolute until he disturbed her. Sometimes he would just stop, watching her. He wondered how he’d ever thought she was as transparent as a glass of water; pure, incorruptible and harsh as Justice, a single face to the world that knew her. She was a shifting pattern, he knew that now. A convolution of forces, dark corners and hard brilliance, softness and defiance, an irresistible puzzle that changed and grew as he tried to solve it. So much in one skin, flawed and chaotic even as she rose up to grab the World’s throat with both hands.  
  
  
“What?” She had finally caught him looking at her on the third morning, and was looking back with an amused quirk around her eyes. “Did you bring the coffee?” She caught sight of the cups in his hands, and stood up, clutching her sketchbook in her lap.  
  
“Here,” he handed her her latte, she took a grateful sip and sat down again. When he came back from the kitchen she was absorbed again, and didn’t look up.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
  
Arthur heard from Eames a week later, an email written in his usual hurried style, dashed off on his cell phone no doubt:  
  
_Hrd u were in teh market 4 smthing 2 get yr teeth in 2. NYC, next mnth or so, male, art collection & so on. Intrested? Bring Aridane._  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
Eames came to the rented office in the Flatiron District looking leaner, clean shaven and wearing a black woolen coat with the collar turned up against the chill. He dumped down the paper grocery bag he was carrying and cheerfully accepted a hug from Ariadne, kissing her cheek before he greeted Arthur.  
  
  
“Any coffee on?”  
  
“Nice to see you too, Eames.”  
  
“As always, Arthur, as always. Milk, two sugars.”  
  
“The pot’s over there,” Arthur tilted his head in the general direction, ignoring Eames as he gave an exaggerated, put upon sigh. “Is this your research on the mark?” Arthur opened the bag to find a pile of papers, stuffed in any which way. He held back his comments as he took the bundle out and a few stray newspaper clippings fluttered to the floor.  
  
  
“It is. Sorry about the wrapping, it was all I had. ” Eames said over his shoulder. “Do we have sugar lumps or just this powdered sweetener crap?”  
  
Ariadne picked up the top most cutting from the pile and frowned as she read it. “In the cupboard,” she replied vaguely.  
  
“Brilliant, thank you. Any biscuits?” he added.  
  
“There’s a convenience store across the street.” Arthur said pointedly. He was going to have to sort the entire pile before it was of any use, he realised as he flicked through it, finding handwritten scraps, some with marked with cup rings and droplets; a handful of printed pages, an assortment of photographs, more cuttings—  
  
  
“Okey dokey. The mark is Michael Ballard,” Eames plopped down in a chair and sipped his coffee with every semblance of enjoyment. “This is him.” Eames pulled a glossy eight by four photo from the pile. It showed a tall man in his mid thirties, dark blond hair styled into a neat, close cut that was longer on the top of his head. He was dressed in a slim evening suit, narrow shouldered and whippet lean under his clothes, and despite his bright grin there were lines in his face and hands that spoke of someone used to getting precisely what they wanted. His dark green eyes were hard as agates, and the fingers wrapped around his champagne flute were a fraction too tight. “Scion of the Ballard family business, which his father passed to him six years ago. They openly deal in property and development contracts in most of the US’ major urban areas, especially New York and Los Angeles.”  
  
  
Arthur passed the photo to Ariadne, who examined it closely as Eames carried on. “They’re rich as Croesus, and they’ve been around so long it's a wonder Edith fucking Wharton didn’t stick them in one of her novels, hanging around the opera and riding about in carriages.”  
  
“That’s very colourful, Eames.” Arthur drawled. “But who’s the client, and what do they want?”  
  
“Straight to the point as usual. Alright, this is the deal,” Eames sat back, folding his arms squarely across his chest. “Our client is Elizabeth Conrad, the US head of the Witton conglomerate. Various and sundry, including land, mining, electronics, the whole shebang. Some above board, some not so.” Eames gave a dry little smile. “She wants definite confirmation and location of a painting that is strongly rumoured to be in Ballard’s possession. This painting.” Eames pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and unfolded on the table.  
  
  
The image was blue and grey toned, with light pouring in from the left hand side. Three people were arranged around a piano, one seated woman in pale yellow and black, her dark hair prettified with ribbons, intent on the keys. A man with his back to the viewer, his shoulder length hair falling in lank locks onto his drab brown coat as he hulked in his seat, a fancy golden sash across his back, the neck of whatever he was playing held in his left hand. A second woman, fair, dressed in blue and with a sheet of paper in her hand stood, her hand raised and her mouth open as if she had been caught mid sentence. Two paintings hung on the wall behind them, one a dark landscape in menacing greens and browns, the other another trio, a man grasping a woman’s waist while someone indistinct looked on. In the foreground a rich piece of woven fabric glowed with reds and blues, glorious against the plain walls and black and white floor, the detail of the carved table it covered as well the yellowed clutch of papers, the violin and cello cast carelessly aside, a capsule still life within the frame.  
  
  
“Vermeer,” Ariadne said softly.  
  
“Indeed.  _The Concert_ , stolen to order in 1990 along with a Manet, some Degas’ and a Rembrandt. Currently the most valuable painting ever to have vanished from the international art market, with an estimated value of three hundred million dollars US.” Eames tapped the image with his index finger, his eyes widening with a hint of pleasure.  
  
“Why would Ballard have it?” Ariadne looked up from the painting.  
  
“It’s a negotiable instrument,” Arthur sat back. “That’s the main reason he would have it. He might get pleasure from knowing he owns it, that only he can see it and no one else; but its use is as a guarantee that he’ll pay an agreed sum. That he’s good for up to three hundred million.”  
  
“So he gives it to whoever he’s agreed to pay for something, and when he does they hand it back?”  
  
“Exactly,” Eames nodded. “It’s a powerful piece to play in games like Ballard’s. Property dealings, drugs, some guns. It’s like a handshake for the savoury things, and a pound of flesh for the not so savoury. The problem is that our client is quite, quite keen to retrieve it; and Ballard has so far been extremely careful with it. It can only be linked to him via third parties, no one is ever sure where he keeps it or even if he does. Nothing useful ever came from the third parties, by the way. Most of them are either dead, or so schtum they might as well be.”  
  
  
“So it has to be extracted from the source,” Arthur felt his brow crease. In his head he was running down a list of the problems this would present, largest first. Ballard had a foot in both sides of the camp, legal and illegal business. He was likely to be wary, and probably had sub security training. “How much is Conrad willing to pay?”  
  
“Up to two thirds of the value, providing the piece can be successfully retrieved.” Eames replied blandly. “Plus expenses. She heard about what we did for Saito, and that helped me raise our capital.”  
  
  
“Two hundred million?” Ariadne gaped, looking back and forth between them. “That’s nearly what we earned for Fischer. Why would anyone offer that for this?” She pushed the image of the painting with her spread fingers.  
  
“She’s prepared to pay because she wants to use it like Ballard does. Witton operates globally, and in some areas of the world it would be an excellent bargaining chip, plus it means the funds can move more discreetly than in huge chunks that would set off investigation.” Arthur rolled his pen between his fingers, his mind eager to begin ripping into the problem. “We just have to make it worth the fee.”  
  
  
“There are a few issues that I’ve identified,” Eames put his coffee cup down and plucked an apparently random sheet from the heap on the desk, interrupting his train of thought. “The first being getting near enough to Ballard to find out anything personal that might be of use.”  
  
“Which implies the second is getting close enough and him alone enough to put him under, right?” Ariadne added.  
  
“Precisely,” Eames nodded. “For all that he’s a public man, with a high profile family and business life, getting near him is like,” he sighed, “it’s fucking difficult. None of my usual routes have yielded anything, and I’ve been running my arse ragged trying to get myself into even the outside of his outer circle.”  
  
Arthur frowned. “So, if you can’t get in, maybe I should try? A security consultation perhaps? Or a partner in an allied firm?”  
  
“Been there, done that, came up with fuck all.”  
  
“So what are you saying?” Arthur pinned him with a sharp look.  
  
“There could be an in,” Eames said slowly, “but it would mean bringing someone else onboard.”  
  
“Why? Who do we need?”  
  
“Ballard is currently single, and looking,” Eames emphasised. “So we use a good old fashioned honey trap.”  
  
  
Arthur nodded slowly. “It might be a good play.”  
  
“Come on, Arthur. It’s the oldest lure in the book. Sex or power will do it every time. Ballard has plenty of the latter, now he wants as much of the former. It’s too good to miss.”  
  
  
“But we’ll have to split the fee four ways, not three.” Ariadne pointed out.  
  
“Not necessarily. Especially if we only take on someone for the set up, not the extraction. It’ll be a bit of a pain, but Sittenfield is fishing around for work last I heard. She’s fairly trustworthy, and she has what we need.” Eames turned to Arthur. “He has a noted preference for a particular kind of woman. Slight, brunette, cultured and smart enough to make him feel like he’s dating above the usual pool of society girls, not smart enough to make him feel stupid. Fashionable, in all senses of the word.”  
  
  
Arthur nodded again. “Sittenfield would be the logical choice in that case. So, what are you thinking? The gala next week? Send her in, let her catch his eye and spin him a story. Set up an apartment for her to use, wire it with some cameras, some contact mics, and we can observe him with his defences down?”  
  
“I’ve never heard it called that before,” Eames smirked, then shot back at Arthur’s sour look. “Lighten up. People say things in bed that they never say upright and fully dressed, and his pillow talk is bound to be revealing. If Sittenfield needs to get him that far, of course.”  
  
  
“I could do it.” Ariadne’s remark cut across their conversation. Arthur whipped his head round in shock, staring at her dumbly as she set her jaw and returned his look.  
  
  
“Pardon me?” Eames replied into the silence. “Did you just say—?”  
  
“I can be the honeytrap. It would save us bringing in someone else and splitting the fee, and I can—”  
  
  
“No.” Arthur bit the word out almost before he realised what he’d done. His blood felt hot, and he could feel his hands tightening into fists just at the thought of Ariadne being a sexual lure for some dumb lunk of a mark.  
  
Ariadne’s eyes narrowed. “I’m his type, Arthur. I’m perfectly capable of catching his attention and keeping it so we can find out what we need.”  
  
  
Eames cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Ariadne, I am inclined to agree with Arthur. While you have many of the qualities Ballard looks for, and certainly the physical attributes, you’re not, err...” He sucked in a breath, glancing over her from head to foot, “you wouldn’t pass muster as the kind of fashion plate he tends to pick.”  
  
“So I need some new clothes,” she shot back. “What else?”  
  
“This isn’t just about looking the part,” Eames countered. “You’re going to have to convince him that you’re attracted to him, not just once but repeatedly, and with every single word, gesture and touch. You slip up and he will see right through you, and then we’ll be back here with sweet fuck all.”  
  
Ariadne gave them both a wry little grin. “You think I can’t do that?”  
  
“Fine,” Eames folded his arms and leveled his gaze at her. “Prove it, and I’ll take it all back. Show me.”  
  
  
“We are not considering this,” Arthur interrupted as Ariadne glanced at him defiantly. “We will need you here,” he added with force as Ariadne stood up, shaking her hair out and letting it fall over one shoulder. He didn’t want to see this, he really didn’t. It was bordering on nightmare fuel to watch her as she completely ignored him, tilted her head down, lowered her eyelids and smiled to herself. As he watched a soft pink coloured her cheeks, and she tipped her head to one side, her eyes travelling over Eames from his feet up to his face. She caught his eyes for a few moments, looked away, then glanced back, her smile widening.  
  
  
Eames didn’t move or crack a smile, he simply watched, his eyes sharply tracking everything she did.  
  
  
The tip of her tongue flashed over her lips, wetting her them, before she caught the lower one between her teeth and glanced away again. Then she started to walk slowly across the space between them, her hips swaying a fraction more than usual. Raising her head, one hand came up to absently stroke down her neck, fingers trailing from her hair to her suprasternal notch as her gaze drifted up to his face again.  
  
  
Arthur could feel his pulse thumping in his temples, and his mouth had gone dry.  
  
  
“Hello,” Ariadne said in a slow, almost shy voice with a small smile, her eyes soft as she looked at Eames. “I’m sorry to be so forward, but I saw you from across the room and— I just had to come over.”  
  
  
Eames considered her for a moment. “Well, here you are. I’m flattered. Women like you aren’t usually so,” he started to return her smile, “direct.”  
  
“Women like me?” Ariadne replied with a teasing note.  
  
“Beautiful women,” Eames qualified as Ariadne blushed, her smile deepening as she glanced away and back again.  
  
“Now you’re flattering me.”  
  
“Oh, but you are.” Eames’ voice lowered. “I saw you, and I thought to myself that you were the kind of woman who is used to being worshiped, put on a pedestal, having people flock to her to pay her homage.”  
  
“That’s kind of boring though, don’t you think?” Ariadne wet her lips again, and she reached out to brush the back of Eames hand with her fingertips. “Waiting for the world to come to you. Not experiencing, or learning, or feeling anything? It makes you boring, and lazy. Who wants to be around someone who has nothing to say or think? No,” her smile deepened, “hidden depths to uncover. Besides, if you wait for the world to come to you, who knows what you might be missing? Better to reach out and,” she began, her eyelids dipping closed for a second as if she was examining Eames’ shirt front. She looked up, looking right into his face, lips curling into a sensual smile. “Take it,” she finished slowly.  
  
  
“So.” A slow, seductive grin warmed Eames’ features. “You saw me and decided you were going to just reach out and take me?”  
  
“I did,” Ariadne said, catching her lip between her teeth again. “Something tells me you might be worth a shot.”  
  
Eames moved closer, his grin now positively feral, and reached to take one of her hands. “Oh, I’m definitely worth that. And a whole lot—”  
  
  
“That’s enough,” Arthur snapped, swallowing back the powerful urge to beat Eames bloody that he could feel curdling in his guts. It was one thing to suspect that they'd hooked up in Mombasa, quite another to watch it play out in front of him. He took a deep breath into his diaphragm, and let it go slowly as Ariadne straightened up, her body language returning to its usual cadence as she smiled at Eames with more than a hint of triumph.  
  
  
“So, am I up to Ballard?” She looked between the two of them, and Arthur prayed fervently that his face was impassive. But Eames was looking at her with new consideration.  
  
“Not quite. But with a few pointers, you might pass muster. And it would save us the trouble and cost of a fourth party.”  
  
  
“Ariadne, you have work of your own to concentrate on.” Arthur forced his voice to be level and reasonable. “Ballard is going to need more than a brief encounter to yield anything useful, and you can’t go full time trying to get it from him.”  
  
“It won’t be though, will it?” Ariadne folded her arms across her body and set her jaw. “He won’t need to have me around twenty four hours a day. And I can’t design anything more than a few basics without some background, and what we have,” she said as she flung one hand towards the scattering of papers, “isn’t going to give me a whole lot to go on. I’ll just be sitting here, spinning my wheels and waiting. That isn’t a good use of me or my time. I can get what we need. Trust me, Arthur.” Her stance softened as she came towards him. “I’m not naive, and I’m not going to get in over my head. You’ve helped see to that.” Her lips tilted up, the smile the gentle one she always favoured him in their closer moments, the ones where he could almost feel that she was someone he could be with without ruining. Now she was asking him to let Ballard into her intimacy, and the thought was so repulsive that he wanted to spit it out.  
  
  
He could feel Eames watching him as he tightened his jaw. “We’ll discuss it later,” he replied firmly.  
  
Ariadne threw up her hands. “Christ, Arthur! You need to just— Damn it!” She spat, turning to grab her bag and coat, before marching across the room and into his personal space. A snarl shaped her face, her teeth bared and her eyes glittering as she thrust herself forward. “I can do this,” she said in a dangerously low voice.  
  
“Can you?” Arthur leaned closer, his lips twisting. “What if you have to kiss him? What if he wants to fuck you? What then?” he demanded. “This isn’t dinner and a movie, Ariadne. This is making him believe you want to be  _his_.”  
  
Her eyes widened as if he slapped her, and too late the bitter note in his voice sank into his brain. But instead of recoiling she straightened her spine and raised her chin.  
  
“If you don’t think that I can do that, then you know nothing about me at all.” She threw the words into his face, inhaling sharply before she turned on her heel and strode out of the office, letting the door slam behind her.  
  
  
“Well,” Eames said after a long moment. “You handled that beautifully.”  
  
  
Arthur turned from where he had been staring at the door, his system still pounding with a wash of adrenaline, his heartbeat furious in his ears. Eames was leaning on the desk, his arms folded and his expression as flat as his voice. Only a slight tension around his eyes was betraying him as he stared at Arthur.  
  
“Leave it,” Arthur turned away, reaching to gather his notes.  
  
“Are you sleeping with her? Is that was this is?” Eames demanded. “Because that was the most perfect display of possessiveness all wrapped up in a sexist bow that I have ever seen.”  
  
“I said, leave it.” Arthur repeated through his teeth.  
  
“You’re not, are you? But you damn well wish you were. Your stupid belief that you can keep her unsullied and all for yourself is going to fuck this up, Arthur,” Eames carried on, each word stinging as it hit. “She knows what needs to happen, and I think she’s got more than enough balls to carry it off. You know that, even if you won’t allow yourself to admit it, don’t you?”  
  
“I am not discussing this now.” Arthur turned around and faced Eames’ brutal gaze.  
  
“You’re a fucking idiot, then,” Eames replied calmly. “If she doesn’t come back, we’ve lost a valuable asset. I will be damned if you do that to this job and to me. We need her on this. She’s better than good. And she’s right, she can’t do anything unless we crack Ballard, and she’s going to give us a closer circle of trust as well as saving us a fuckton of cash if she’s the one who does it.”  
  
Arthur returned his look with equal force. “You don’t know that she can.”  
  
“Fuck off, Arthur. You saw that little act she put on. You were sitting through it with a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.”  
  
“Don’t push it, Eames.”  
  
“Don’t you even try to come the dangerous point man with me,” he shot back. “You’re being an arsehole. This makes sense, and if you weren’t thinking with your dick you’d see that.”  
  
“I need some air.” Arthur grabbed his coat from his chair, refusing to face Eames.  
  
“Good. Perhaps it’ll blow the idiocy out of your brain.”  
  
  
Arthur whipped round, and before he knew it he was toe to toe with Eames, his body tense and his brain full of killing words.  
  
  
“If you’re going to hit me, then do it.” Eames didn’t flinch as he spoke. “But you’re not thinking about the job, you’re thinking about her. That isn’t what we need.”  
  
“Ariadne is not ready for this,” Arthur said with slow, deliberate force.  
  
“Stop making decisions for her,” Eames replied sharply. “You’ll push her away. Is that what you want?” His eyebrows rose as Arthur pulled back a fraction. “Get this out of your system, however you need to. Get drunk, get laid, beat someone to a pulp, whatever it takes. Then pull your head out of your arse and think it through again. This is a great solution. We need to use it.”  
  
  
Arthur scanned Eames face, but he saw nothing except for the cold, hard determination that lay just under the surface of every mask he wore. He shook his head and turned away, feeling the slice of his words slipping under his skin, into the raw softness of himself where they twisted and jeered.  
  
  
“I’m leaving,” Arthur replied flatly. “I’ll lock up now. We’ll meet again later this week.”  
  
“Is that Arthur for  _‘fuck off, you shit?’_ ” Eames shook his head and sighed. “Fine.” He straightened up, bundling his coat over one arm and strolling towards the door. Arthur forcibly ignored him, sweeping the papers into a drawer and locking it, scanning the room and switching off the lights, trying to use the activity as a distraction from the roiling thoughts in his head. He half expected Eames to be waiting for him on the landing, leaning against the wall with one last quip to jab into Arthur’s psyche. But instead all he heard as he bolted the door was the faint sound of Eames whistling to himself as he made his way down the stairs, the outside door swishing open, and then silence as it clanged shut.  
  
  
Arthur stared at the door for a long moment, trying to school himself into order. What did he need? What did the job need? He cursed himself, because he knew the answer to both questions was the same.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
  
When he reached the apartment there was no sign of her. The quiet was total, only the dust motes hanging in the beams of sunlight that were flooding through the windows moved, eddying as he disturbed the air.  
  
Arthur paused at the window seat. Her books and sketchpad were still piled on one end of it, a row of pencils sitting on top, their ends chewed in places from when she would pause to think or consider her next stroke. Her grey sweater had been tossed over the spot where she’d been sitting, crumpled in an empty heap. He touched it lightly with his fingertips, and it hit him suddenly that fucking Eames was fucking right, again. He would push her away, and it wasn’t what he wanted.  
  
But what did he want? A partnership, or a relationship, or both?  
  
“Fuck you, Eames.” Arthur muttered to himself viciously, turning away and making towards his room.  


 

  
~*~

  
  
  
  
Arthur drank three doubles in the bar he found on the Lower East, and picked up a girl who said her name was Harmony. He doubted that she was telling the truth, but he didn’t care.  
  
Her hair was dark as her eyes, and when he fucked her he buried his face into the wavy mass and felt himself release as if he was watching rather than participating in the act. Even when her fine slim fingers gripped his erection and milked his climax from him as she crooned  _oh baby, oh baby, I love your cock, baby_  into his ear, even though his body arched and shook then fell back, panting and drained, even then his mind would not still or be silent.  
  
  
When he crept into the apartment at 3am it was dark, and nothing had moved. Ariadne’s door was open, the way she’d left it that morning and inside he could see her bed, smooth and empty.  
  
He showered, washing off the smell of sex, and before he fell into bed he checked his cell phone.  
  
It stubbornly showed no messages.  


 

  
~*~

 


	6. Chapter 6

He didn’t see Ariadne for five days. She didn’t come back to the apartment, and his messages (when he finally caved in and sent them) got cursory responses:  
  
 _I’m fine. Not in trouble. Don’t worry. See you soon._

  
 _He deserved it._  Arthur let the thought whip him raw. He shouldn’t have dismissed her so far out of hand, chastised her in front of Eames, or been so crude. He would have to apologise in person and explain himself, then they could move on. His rational brain accepted this solution, refusing to let him twist and torture himself over something he couldn't resolve until she was ready. But the other part of him, behind the armour who still breathed and felt no matter how he tried to avoid it, refused to let go. For five days he stayed busy, never stopping until he wanted to sleep, just to keep that side of himself at bay. But even in his dreams he couldn’t escape, and he would wake up with images of Ariadne bleeding into his mind.  
  
  
So he would push it aside, get up, brew coffee and begin working again.  
  
  
On the fifth morning Arthur arrived at their office early, and set about preparing all the information he’d managed to glean about Ballard from his sources. The night before he’d sent both Ariadne and Eames a message, telling them that they should meet at the office the next day. Eames had replied mentioning he’d done a little more digging, so that was a positive, but Ariadne had remained infuriatingly brief and revealed little about her own activities. With any luck she’d spent some time thinking things through, and maybe even in the cooldown after the heat of the moment changed her mind about being Ballard’s honeytrap.  
  
  
Sittenfield had replied to his emails with a cautious agreement, and Arthur was fairly sure he could negotiate her fee down a little, especially since he’d made it clear he didn’t require her services as an extractor. He was sure that once he presented the facts to Eames and Ariadne there would be less resistance to using her, and provided he made sure to reinforce to Ariadne that he had had no intention of belittling or undermining her as well as apologising then he was sure they could proceed.  
  
Except Eames’ words were still stuck in his craw. Was he wrong? Was he holding Ariadne back, when she could be of use and save them bringing Sittenfield on board? Not that he didn’t trust her, but he trusted Ariadne far more. If he backed his work self into a corner and forced the issue, then he would grudgingly admit that in some small way Eames was right. Ariadne had blossomed, if that was the right way to describe her development into an extractor and dream architect. She had sharp edges he had only glimpsed, steel under her compassion and empathy that made her far more able to burrow into mark’s minds than almost anyone Arthur knew, save Cobb. When she set out to accomplish a job, she focused on it and stayed her course until it was done. Sure, she could be volatile, but she was also quick, creative and a lateral thinker. Her little charade with Eames had made him furious, but his cold, logical side reasoned, surely that should show you just how effective she could be with Ballard in her grip?  
  
  
Arthur rubbed his forehead tiredly as he set another pot of coffee to brew. She and Eames would hopefully arrive soon, then they could begin. A caffeine fix would be best if he was to be ready for them both, he decided.  
  
  
Sadly, fate had obviously decided not to let him prepare. Just as he hit the brew button, the door ground open and Eames appeared, muffled in his dark coat and a plaid scarf.  
  
  
“Good morning,” he said levelly, peeling off his gloves and dropping them on one of the desks, examining Arthur with no more than a glance. “How are we?”  
  
“I’m fine, thank you.” Arthur replied blandly. “And you?”  
  
“Rather good, even if I do say so myself.” Eames glanced around, unwinding his scarf and shedding his coat, piling them carelessly over his gloves. “Ariadne not here yet?” There was an almost exaggerated casualness about him as he asked, an edge lurking under the questioning.  
  
“No,” Arthur didn’t elaborate on the last five days that she’d been absent. “I thought you might have run into her on your way here. Coffee?” he added.  
  
“Now why would you think that?” Eames turned away from the board where Arthur had been organising his research, studying him with a shrewd eye. “And yes, I’d love a cup.”  
  
  
 _Because I haven’t seen her, and I need to know she’s OK_ , Arthur yelled inside his head. “She said was making her own way here this morning,” he lied smoothly, turning his back and pouring out the coffee for them both.  
  
“I see.” Eames’ lips tightened around the words. “Have you given any more thought to her idea of going in on Ballard?”  
  
  
Arthur felt himself squirm for a second, and deflected. “I spoke to Sittenfield. She seems open to joining us.”  
  
“Is that so?” Eames took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. “Because I talked to DeCreasy, and she told me that she and Sittenfield are lining up something in Lisbon. Plus I did a little digging, just to find out why she was casting about so widely for work, you understand, and the scuttlebutt is that last three jobs she took were a bunk.”  
  
  
“Where did you hear that?” Arthur tried not to snap.  _How the hell could he have missed finding out?_  The idea that Sittenfield was playing him wasn’t only infuriating, but a sign he hadn’t been as careful as he should about checking her recent history.  
  
“Donovan, for one. Rhodes is pissed off because she nearly burned his entire team in Tokyo, letting something slip to the mark that set off his security. And she had a fling with Goodman in Berlin and took her eye off the ball, by all accounts. I don’t think DeCreasy knows about that yet, and I’ll be damned if I’m the one who tells her what her wife’s been up to. But that bombshell is probably going to hit any day now,” Eames finished.  
  
  
“Shit,” Arthur muttered.  
  
  
“You said it, mate. She’s lost her edge, so she’s moving into more extraction work to protect her arse.” Eames took out his cell phone and held it out. “Here, read the stuff I’ve got. Just in case you think I’m trying to pull the wool over your eyes.”  
  
  
Arthur tried not to snatch the phone out of Eames hand, and stay neutral as he skimmed through the messages and emails, choice phrases sticking out like warning beacons. “Damn it,” Arthur allowed himself to snap.  
  
  
“So you see,” Eames added. “To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t know. However, we do have an alternative.” He widened his eyes over the rim of his cup as he took another slow drink.  
  
  
 _Modulate your breathing,_  Arthur told himself firmly as he felt the surge of his emotional reaction to that idea, again, rising through him.  _Think. Be rational. What does the job need?_  
  
  
He was just about to reply when there were footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turned with a rasp.  
  
  
“Good morning.” At the sound of Ariadne’s voice he turned around, ready to meet her with the apology he’d planned, all the words lining up in his head in an orderly rank.  
  
  
“Good—” he started to say, but then as he saw her; all the phrases wilted on his lips and his brain whited out for a full second.  
  
  
When he forced his brain to function again she was standing in front of him, smiling at his dumbstruck reaction.  
  
  
 _It was Ariadne,_  he told himself, but not the Ariadne he was used to seeing. Not the pretty bohemian with a clear complexion, loose hair and her favourite boots scuffed and battered from use. Not his Ariadne, her beauty undimmed in her eclectic style, clothes that skimmed and covered and hinted rather than yelled at the world.  
  
This Ariadne was dressed in a closely cut pair of black pants and a form fitting jacket over a creamy white blouse that was sheer enough to hint at skin underneath. On her feet was a pair of heeled boots, much higher than her usual comfortable half inch, black as her suit with a wickedly pointed toe. Her hair was pulled up onto her head, the long line of her neck visible and inviting, made doubly tempting by a few gentle curls that seemed to have escaped by accident, yet could never have done so that artfully. And her face, once he could make himself stop gawping at the way she was dressed, the new lines of her body coming through to his stunned brain, her face was—  _Oh God_ , was all he could think. Her lips had been painted scarlet, her eyes softened with a haze of cocoa and cream shadow around them, and something on her skin was making it glow even more than it always did.  
  
  
“Arthur,” Eames staged whispered, “you’re staring.”  
  
  
Shit, he was.  _Fuck and shit and hell._  He jerked his eyes down to the carpet at her feet and cleared his throat. He could practically feel Eames’ smirk, and there was no way he was giving him the satisfaction.  
  
  
“Good morning, Ariadne. Well, don't you scrub up nicely.” Eames was smirking, he could hear it in his voice. “I take it this is more than just a sub  _Pretty Woman_  makeover moment you’re having?”  
  
  
Arthur made himself look up again to find Ariadne watching him with a hint of satisfaction. “No,” she replied archly, opened the leather attache case she was carrying and removed a wallet of papers, much like the ones she’d handed him that first time in Paris, and held them out to him. On top was a New York State driver’s licence, and Ariadne smiled from the image, the same unfamiliar face as she was wearing now.  
  
  
“My name is Antonia Keele,” Ariadne began as he began to flick through her documents. “I’m a freelance architect, currently working from my apartment in Williamsburg. My family is from Boston, but I studied for my masters in Europe. London,” she added as Eames began to ask. “I’ve worked on various projects in America and Asia, and I’ve just moved to New York from Paris. My interests include twentieth and twenty first century art, theatre and discovering all the quirks of New York’s cultural scene. I’m single, and Iooking.” She finished with a sly grin.  
  
  
Eames didn’t comment, simply held out his hand for the papers Arthur was holding, laying them out on the desk next to him and bending over them with professional scrutiny.  
  
“Not bad,” he admitted eventually, “we can beef up your background as required, I think. Now, let me have a look at you.” Eames strolled across and made a slow circle around her, looking her up and down carefully. He did this twice, then stopped in front of her, arms folded as he examined her face. Ariadne lifted her chin and met him face on, unflinching.  
  
  
“The lipstick is too much for daytime,” Eames said eventually. “The clothes are good. The shoes are excellent, as is your hair. The posture we can work on. You’re still a little awkward,” he forestalled her rebuttal. “Tell me your name again.”  
  
“Antonia Keele.” Ariadne repeated.  
  
“Softer, slower,” Eames ordered. “From the back of your throat. Again.”  
  
Ariadne frowned. “Antonia Keele.” Her timbre was richer this time, a hint of seduction and scotch in it that made Arthur’s skin prickle.  
  
“Good,” Eames nodded. “Less work for me than I anticipated. But you will still need some coaching, so don’t get cocky.” He said as she started to smile again.  
  
  
“Arthur?” Ariadne prompted, looking over at him where he’d been stuck since she walked in.  
  
“I, err,” he hesitated, taking her in all over again. “You’ve done well,” he hedged.  
  
“Are you prepared to let me go in on Ballard?” Ariadne fixed him with a steady look.  
  
  
What could he say? She’d spent time creating this self for Ballard. Learning him, making herself blur into this other shape. _She’s beautiful,_  Arthur thought with a shock.  _She’s always been beautiful, I’ve known it and seen it for all this time. Now everyone can see what I do, because she’s decided to use it. Oh God, I’m going to lose her._  Suddenly all the panic he’d felt before took shape and reared up inside him.  _No,_  he pushed back with force.  _Think of the job. Remember what you were going to say,_  he lectured himself.  _Apologise._  
  
  
“Ariadne, I’m sorry for how I behaved when you suggested it before. I was reluctant, and I overreacted.” He took a deep breath. “I see now that I was wrong.”  
  
  
She didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Thank you,” she replied. “Thank you for apologising, and for your faith in me. I can get us what we need.” Behind her eyes he saw the flicker of her determination, the solid core of her will to succeed and, just for a moment, he felt sorry for Ballard.  
  


  
~*~

  
  
  
  
Ariadne had found an apartment on Bedford Avenue, a sunny top floor space in a new development with all the amenities a New Yorker could wish for, plus a view over McCarren Park. Despite her obvious misgivings over the architect’s work, she admitted that Antonia would probably not plump for something lesser, even if she might relish the chance to live in such an authentic part of the city.  
  
  
Arthur and Eames spent two days fitting it out with hidden cameras and contact bugs, while Ariadne dressed one bedroom as her office, building display models, filling the file cabinet with documents and putting rolled blueprints and plans into a storage unit that looked as if it could do double duty as a wine rack. She laid out a drawing board and ergonomic chair with meticulous care; then when she declared herself satisfied, she and Eames took up the task of turning the rest of the apartment into a home fit for a well heeled woman happy to add some authentic New York grime to her life.  
  
  
“Shopping is damn dull,” she groused half heartedly when they had settled later over a takeout. “Especially for someone who isn’t much like you, or that you give a give a crap about. For something people do as a hobby, it really isn’t that much fun.  _Vive internet._.” She finished dryly.  
  
“It’s important that you get out and are seen, at least in some of the areas you might frequent,” Eames forked up a generous mouthful of curry and ate it with relish. “Not a patch on Brick Lane,” he mumbled around his mouthful. “Chicken Korma down there would really do for your tastebuds.”  
  
  
“How’s the monitoring set up?” Ariadne glanced at Arthur, who had been quietly tucking into his food.  
  
“Cameras in all the rooms, four each in the public areas, two in the private,” he reeled off.  
  
“Including the bedroom and the bathroom,” Eames added indistinctly. “Just in case you decide to prance around here in your skimpies.” Ariadne kicked his shin under the table and stuck out her tongue childishly, thankfully missing the heat Arthur could feel colouring his neck and the tips of his ears.  
  
  
“I’m hoping you’re gentleman enough to skip through those parts.”  
  
“Darling, whatever gave you the impression I was a gentleman?” Eames parried with a smirk. “Which reminds me, tomorrow we have to get you some clothes. Including skimpies.”  
  
  
Arthur put his fork down and took a swig of water. Ariadne trying on underclothes was fogging his brain, and while not unpleasant, it wasn’t conducive to the time or the place.  
  
  
Clearing his throat noisily he carried on. “Contact microphones in every room, some in multiples. Light fittings and sockets we’ve shielded them to stop interference from electrical and wireless signals. When you get more decorative items in here we can use some of those for closer range units. Ballard has security, and it’s likely they’ll try and do a sweep once he’s interested, so we’ve had to be a little more inventive than usual.”  
  
Ariadne nodded as she ripped the heads and shells from her grilled shrimp with her fingers, licking the juices away with uncouth pleasure.  
  
“So anything he does or says in here is ours,” Eames finished, wiping up some of the sauce on his plate with a chunk of flatbread. “Provided you get him to say it, of course.” He widened his eyes as he popped the morsel in his mouth.  
  
“Don’t worry yourself about that. With your lessons under my belt, I think we’ll be just fine.” Ariadne shot back.  
  
“Lessons?” Arthur’s ears pricked. “What kind of lessons?” He gave Eames a sharp look.  
  
“Nothing special, Arthur. Just a few tips on making sure Ballard falls hook, line and sinker. Which is what we want, right?”  
  
“Just some body language, choice of words, tone, that kind of thing,” Ariadne added more helpfully.  
  
“Human communication is only ten percent what you’re saying after all,” Eames said pointedly. “Everything else is nonverbal and since that’s one of my fields of expertise, I thought it would be to our advantage if it was put to use.” He and Ariadne shared a brief glance, and Arthur squashed the prickle of discomfort in his throat.  
  
“Good idea,” he nodded and fixed his eyes on his plate, making a show of being involved in eating rather than talk.  
  


  
~*~

  
  
  
  
The charity gala was held in the overblown mock French Renaissance fantasy of the Plaza’s Grand Ballroom, stuffed with towering floral arrangements, glass decked candelabras and glittering reflections from the mirrored walls that gave the whole scene a jarring, dreamlike quality that Arthur found difficult to shut out.  
  
  
He and Eames had managed to secure wait staff positions for the night, so he found himself dressed in a tail coat and white gloves, circling the rooms with a silver platter in hand, offering exquisite bites of food hand arranged by the chef. Earlier, Arthur had watched as he had cursed and screeched at his staff when so much as a leaf was laid wrong and threatened bloody murder on any waiter who so much as breathed near his pea crostini dressed with pignolis and basil. Eames had given him a quirk of the eyebrow at that, and Arthur could imagine all too well that he was imagining crushing one of the petit Maryland crab cakes with Chesapeake remoulade into the chef’s chest just to see what would happen. He returned it with an eyebrow raise of his own, one that apparently successfully conveyed that now was not the time.  
  
  
He had one eye looking through the crowd for Ballard as he circulated, and the other eye on the door. Eames had spent most of the day coaching Ariadne through her final lessons, so Arthur hadn’t seen her himself. She’d moved into the apartment in Williamsburg, so he was alone in Morningside Heights.  _Did he miss her?_  he asked himself as he bowed his head to an elderly socialite, offering the food with what he hoped was suitable deference.The woman’s hand hovered briefly, her pink nails incongruous in her old hands, weighed down by a diamond bracelet and a large ring, then she waved him off carelessly.  
  
  
He’d left the window seat with all Ariadne’s things strewn around, perhaps as a shrine to her presence. Like the wall of photos, what he should get rid of wasn’t necessarily what he could, and the merest suggestion of her was enough to make him feel less alone. The push and pull of want and need he’d tried so long to excise from himself was gaining ground, and despite everything he was, he was letting it.  
  
  
Arthur spotted Ballard at the other side of the ballroom, and pushing his thoughts aside he casually drifted in his direction, offering the dainties as he went, murmuring “Madam. Sir. Thank you,” like a good, invisible servant should. He caught a brief sight of Eames, a tray of glasses in hand as he offered up his most charming smile. Doubtless he’d already caught a few eyes, and perhaps a few business cards with hastily scrawled numbers and pleas to call were already burning a hole in his pocket. No sign of Ariadne yet, he thought as he scanned the room anxiously. There was fashionably late, but this was approaching ridiculous.  
  
  
He was on the verge of ducking into the service area, digging out his cell phone and calling her, when he spotted her. Strolling across the room, the crowd seeming to part for her as she moved, like Cinderella arriving to the palace ball, except Cinderella had never looked like this. A plain, navy sheath dress skimmed over her body, baring her arms and stopping at her knees, so the creamy skin glowed in the soft light. Her shoes wove and wrapped around her feet with tens of thin laces that added to the effect of visible skin. Scarlet nails, scarlet lips, discreet diamonds winking in her ears and at her throat, the glossy curls of her piled up hair artfully messed and tumbling from the pinned up style to caress her neck. Her smoky eyes fixed on Ballard as she moved, a small, sensual smile on her lips as she almost prowled towards him.  
  
  
When Arthur risked looking, Ballard had caught her in his eyeline, trying valiantly to hold up his conversation for a moment, glancing away, glancing back to her, over and over, before excusing himself and breaking free. Ariadne paused, looking away shyly as if she was going to flee, but let him come to her, and within a few moments they had struck up a conversation. Arthur swallowed hard, and forced himself back to work, this time purposely moving towards them.  
  
  
“A drink, madame?” He overheard Eames say as he drew closer, catching him at Ariadne’s elbow, holding out his tray. He’d gone with the French accent, despite Arthur warning him he sounded like Inspector Clouseau.  
  
Ariadne took a glass, inclining her head gratefully. “ _Merci,_ ” she said, dismissing him.  
  
“You speak French,” he heard Ballad comment in a warm, intimate voice. “How fascinating. You really are quite,” he paused as if he was considering her. “Intriguing. I’d the love the chance to figure you out. Where are you sitting at dinner?”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ariadne let her words float from her in a throaty drawl.  
  
  
Arthur turned smoothly, dropping his eyes as a good waiter should. “Sir, madam, would you like a canape?”  
  
Ballard took one without looking, shoving it towards his mouth. Ariadne’s hand moved into his eyeline, slowly picking a crostini up between her slender fingers, her nails glinting in the light.  _Don’t look,_  he warned himself, but he couldn’t resist. For a second he raised his head, and Ariadne smiled politely, catching his eye and letting it slide away, back to Ballard as she took a bite, a slow, deliberate smile forming.  
  
“Delicious,” she said as both he and Ballard watched her tongue swipe her lips.  
  
  
“You and I should sit together. Let me make the arrangements.” Ballard reached out, boldly cupping Ariadne’s elbow in his hand. Realising Arthur was still there he shot him a pointed look. “Don’t you have duties to attend to?”  
  
  
“Apologies sir, madam,” Arthur forced himself to grovel. “Excuse me.” He turned away again, just in time to see Ballard leaning down towards Ariadne as he guided her away, and to see Ariadne turn to meet him with a glittering laugh. He swallowed the spike in his throat, and with his deferential mask back in place, he shut them out of his mind.  
  


 

~*~

  
  
  
  
  
  
Ariadne was already at the office when he arrived the next morning, looking exactly herself in her red jacket, loose shirt and jeans. She was busy with the coffee maker and a plate of pastries sat on his desk where Eames was sitting, helping himself with a childlike delight at the crumbs he was scattering.  
  
“Morning, sunshine,” Eames said around a mouthful of cinnamon bun. “Went well last night, didn’t it? Ariadne,” he caught her sharp glance, “sorry,  _Antonia_  has a date.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
Arthur put his bag down and forced the sour feeling in his stomach away. “Ballard’s hooked?” He directed himself at Ariadne rather than face Eames’ glee. She held out a coffee cup to him and smiled brightly.  
  
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” she said lightly. “We talked all night, about his patronage of the Arts, his travels, mine, Williamsburg, how responsible he feels to his family, and how he wants to be able to rebel, just a little,” she smiled coyly. “We’re going to a gallery opening in three days time. He was so eager we set it up last night. He didn’t even want to wait to call me.”  
  
“Good. We’ll run through everything in a moment.” Arthur replied shortly, sitting down, pushing the pastries aside and powering up his laptop. “Eames, if you’re done eating we need to make sure that Antonia Keele’s records are all ready for when his security starts nosing around. Do you have his private cell number yet?” He ignored Eames put upon sigh and turned back to Ariadne.  
  
  
She pulled Antonia’s phone from her hip pocket. “Like I said, fish in a barrel,” she put it in his outstretched hand, then wandered over to her drawing board, settling down with a softly triumphant smile.  
  


  
~*~

  
  
  
  
His cell phone pinged at 3am. When he rolled over and grabbed it the alert he’d put on searches for Antonia Keele’s data glared from the screen. Good, but he felt his jaw clench even as he thought it.  
  
Almost without realising, he unlocked his phone and checked on the video streaming from the cameras in Williamsburg. The apartment was dark, and in the bedroom the humped shape of Ariadne’s sleeping body took up the middle of the bed. She was snoring quietly, snuffles and sighs the only sound.  
  
He propped his cell phone on the nightstand, and watched the picture for a while, listening to her sleep.  _God, he was acting like a bad romantic hero,_  he sneered at himself. Like a stalker dressing up bad behaviour with excuses about caring and being protective. He snatched up his phone and switched it off, then rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to come.  
  
 _It’s just a job, and she’s just a colleague,_  he chanted in his head.  _Just another job. Just another dream worker._  
  
He leaned into the thought, made it a wall between himself and anything else, and fell into his unquiet rest.  
  


  
~*~

  
  
  
  
Antonia and Ballard ( _not Ariadne_ , he reminded himself sharply.  _Ballard could try and have Antonia, but Ariadne was another matter_ ) had started dating regularly after the gallery opening. Dinner; a trip to the theatre; a reception for his charity where she went on his arm; and a weekend walk in Central Park followed by lunch. After each one, Ariadne would come back, in Arthur’s eyes as he watched the video streaming from her apartment, glowing with the pleasure of a woman being lavished with attention.  
  
  
She was careful from the first, foiling Ballard’s attempts to press an advantage even as he lingered at her door for goodnight kisses that Arthur made himself watch. Every detail of his hands on her back, moving slyly towards her ass in a silky caress; his mouth slanting over hers as she turned in his embrace; her arms around his neck and stroking through his hair. The reluctance to let her go, trailing his palms over her the curve of her hips or the lines of her shoulders in greedy, possessive lines as she stepped back, one hand lingering on his cheek as she said goodnight. He knew she was working on ingratiating herself, making herself a figure of integrity and desire in Ballard’s head so they could use it as a lever later on, but the facts were nothing compared to the reaction he had to quell each time.  
  
  
 _He was just observing,_  he reminded himself as he tailed them through the park or ate at a corner table with them in his eyeline,  _this was just a performance._  But he looked at Ballard every time, and he envied him with a hard, bitter force, for taking freely something he had forced himself to deny ever wanting until it was out of reach.  
  


  
~*~

 


	7. Chapter 7

~*~  
  
  
Antonia was barely put together when Ballard rang her bell. Ariadne jammed the last hairpin in her chignon, took a deep breath and opened the door with a bright smile. From where he was sitting on the couch, Arthur could see Ballard smiling down at her, holding a bouquet of flowers the size of a small dog.  
  
  
“Hi honey,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.  
  
“Michael,” she forestalled him with a hand to his chest and a softly shocked tone. “I have clients here.”  
  
“They won’t mind,” he murmured and moved her hand, clasping it in his as he claimed her mouth for a few seconds. Arthur felt his teeth clench as he made himself look at the ceiling, the coffee cup in his hand feeling more fragile by the second.  
  
“Are these for me?” Ariadne’s voice was teasing. “You shouldn’t have.”  
  
“Of course I should. You deserve nothing less and a whole lot more,” he trailed off. From his seat in one of the armchairs Eames made a faintly disgusted face, although Arthur couldn’t tell if it was at the line or the man delivering it.  
  
  
There was a rustle of paper, Ballard obviously aiming for another kiss, but Ariadne cut him off. “I should put these in water. Come and meet my clients. They must be wondering what’s taking me so long.”  
  
  
Ariadne’s heels clicked across the floor, and as if on cue both he and Eames stood. Ballard entered the room with all the confidence and assurance of someone who’d been raised to know he was one of the powerful and only needed to apply the right pressure to get what he wanted. He was dressed in a deceptively casual fashion, a pair of drab colored slacks, a dark peacoat and a pale shirt undone at the neck. In one fist he was clutching a maroon scarf and a pair of gloves, his other hand tucked into his hip pocket as he took them both in.  
  
  
“Michael, this is Henry Cavanagh,” Ariadne held out her hand towards Eames, who gave a lopsided smile and offered a limp hand to shake.  
  
“Charmed, I’m sure. Charmed,” he said in a stiff English accent as Ballard accepted the gesture, assessing then dismissing Eames as he shifted his attention to Arthur.  
  
  
“And David Rayner,” Ariadne carried on. Arthur met Ballard’s eyes, holding his look for a second too long. Ballard didn’t flinch, his own self belief so strong it refused to admit defeat to a lesser man in anything. Arthur could feel the wolf in his mind begin to growl, hackles rising and lip curled.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The phrase came out as bland as he could make it. Ballard’s stare was intensifying, and he could almost hear him wondering why such a non entity would dare challenge him.  
  
  
“We’ve heard a great deal about you,” Eames’ crashed into the middle of their silent power struggle with a jovial expression. “Ms Keele was telling us you’re  _the_  Michael Ballard! We’re quite small fry ourselves, so this is very much our honour.” Ballard’s attention snapped away from Arthur and immediately he was charm personified, meeting Eames’ obsequious manner with all the grace of a king.  
  
“Well, thank you. What’s your project?”  
  
“A block of flats in Sugar Hill. Bit of a ‘fixer upper’, as you Yanks like to say,” Eames mugged gamely, laying his act on as thick as he could. “But Ms. Keele has lots and lots of wonderful ideas. Quite the brainbox.”  
  
“Well, I like to tell Toni that she’s the whole package. Brilliant and beautiful. I’m a very lucky man.” Ballard smiled broadly as Ariadne returned holding the flowers in a vase. As she set them on the coffee table he laid on hand on her lower back, splaying out over her spine in a greedy caress. As Ariadne straightened up he slid his grasp around her hip, bringing her closer to him as he looked between Eames and Arthur.  _Mine_ , the gesture blared.  _All mine. Great big handfuls of mine._  Arthur felt his fists itch, and instantly put his free hand behind his back.  
  
  
Ariadne lowered her eyelids in a coy fashion, resting one hand lightly on Ballard’s upper arm. “Michael,” she mock chided. “ _Pas devant les enfants._ ”  
  
“Ah,  _parlay voo lay fronsays_  as well, eh?” Eames’ accent was deliberately atrocious. “You’ve got yourself a keeper there, if I might make so bold, Mr. Ballard.”  
  
“I hope so,” he replied with a sudden intensity. His pause crackled with it, then he was all smiles again. “Well, I do hope that you won’t mind if I steal Toni away. I was hoping she might let me cook dinner for her and we could have a quiet evening together.” He gazed at Ariadne as he finished, his eyes raking over her and his smile becoming more intimate. “If you don’t mind?” He added to her in a low voice.  
  
“Not at all,” Ariadne’s seductive tone made his eyes darken.  
  
  
“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.” Ballard’s politeness came out as a firm command.  
  
  
“Of course, of course.” Eames blustered. “Come on, Davey boy. Thank you, Ms Keele.” He shook Ariadne’s hand politely.  
  
“Yes, thank you. We’ll call you later this week to finalise the details.” Arthur took her hand briefly, noting that Ballard kept his grasp on her the whole time. “We’ll see ourselves out.” Ariadne made eye contact with him, and gave a small nod.  
  
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “ _À bientôt._ ”  
  
“ _Certainement._ ” He replied, looking back at her in Ballard’s arms, trying to smother the urge to grab her to him with one hand and break Ballard’s face with the other.  _God, who was he becoming?_  He made himself turn away, following Eames, but even before the door closed behind them he heard Ariadne chuckle, then low, soft scolding breaking off suddenly into a heavy, writhing silence.  
  
  
He and Eames made it to their rental car without speaking. Once the doors were closed Eames yanked off his ascot and stuffed into his shirt pocket. “Bloody cravat, feels like a noose.  _Toni_ ,” he snorted derisively, changing the subject as Arthur pulled out into the street. “She’s done a right number on his head and no mistake. What do you think?”  
  
  
“I think you could have toned it down.” Arthur gripped the wheel, imagining for a wonderful second it was Ballard’s wrists and he was about to snap them.  
  
  
“What the hell was I supposed to do, with you doing your best impression of an Easter Island statue taking part in a staring contest with our mark, of all people. If he’s going to remember anyone a bungling posh British twit beats the man who was trying to bore a hole in the back of his skull with the power of thought alone. All you damn well did was make him suspicious.”  
  
“I was just trying to gauge how he responded to aggression.” Arthur snarked back. “Besides, I thought he was too wrapped up in Ariadne to notice.”  
  
  
Eames’ eyeroll was virtually audible. “Alright, fine, whatever you say.” He said heavily. “I suspect you might have point though, since he’s obviously going all out to have sex with her tonight. If he gets the goodies he’ll barely remember us.”  
  
  
Arthur felt his skin go cold. “What makes you say that?” He hoped he hadn’t croaked the words.  
  
  
“He’s making her dinner and they’re having a night in. It might as well have been in flashing neon letters on his forehead:  ** _’I want to get some.’_**  Still, if Ariadne’s got him where we want him, then we’ll have the whole thing to review at our leisure.” Eames flipped down the sunshade and straightened his hair in the mirror. “Well since we’re not needed, how about a drink? I know a nice dive on Third.”  
  
  
“Sure,” Arthur closed his teeth on the word, avoiding Eames’ eyes in the rearview mirror. Anything but think about Ariadne in bed with Ballard.  _Shut it off,_  he insisted to himself.  _It’s just a job. She’s got an emergency alarm that will beep us if she’s in trouble. You trained her. Don’t be such a chauvinist pig._  
  
  
“Wonderful. Well, first round’s on me.” Eames said dryly.

 

  
~*~

  
  
  
  
Arthur rose up from sleep feeling like he had a weight tied around his feet. Bright sunlight was pouring through his old bedroom window, and he squinted. His mouth tasted as if something had died in it overnight, and when he sat up his head thrummed with a resonant bass that made his neck tighten. He groaned, scrubbing his face, trying to come to consciousness with as little pain as possible. He could feel a soft lump underneath his thigh as he moved, and rummaging under the covers he pulled out his briefs, discarded sloppily in the bed. He dropped the fistful of fabric on the floor and groped towards his nightstand, clutching the painkillers he’d managed to put out last night, dry swallowing them and chasing them down with the room temperature water he’d left alongside them.  
  
  
He wanted to fall back, pull his blankets over his head and sleep until the vodka still in his veins had turned back to blood again. He hadn’t meant to drink so much, but with the first sip he’d felt the alcohol seep into his body and was glad of it, more than he wanted to be. The cold anesthetic of drink on his tongue wiped him out like chalk on a blackboard, all the jealousy, the anger and the fear washed away.  _Bad, very bad_ , he realised, but it hadn’t stopped him bringing the glass to his lips over and over again. Eames had more than made up for his quiet though, seeming to drink like a fish, telling the bar he was a minor British aristocrat, smoking the cigars that somehow he had in his pocket while he regaled the other smokers with their made up development plans as they huddled on the street like filthy pigeons.  
  
“Pie in the sky, that’s what Davey here says! Pie in the sky!” The memory of Eames’ blustering posh boy voice broke through the fog in Arthur’s brain, the hearty whacks on the shoulder he’d kept giving him doubtless the reason why he now felt like he’d been punched on the back. After that he could just remember the cab ride here, the seasick roll of the floor under him as he managed to get inside, getting ready for bed, then—  
  
  
“Fuck!” He grabbed his cell phone, unlocked it and instantly the camera feeds from Ariadne’s bedroom in Williamsburg appeared. The bed was empty, sheets rumpled and creased, the light from the window making it glow radioactively bright. He grabbed his briefs off the floor, uncreased them, and there like a blazing mark of shame was a tell tale crisp, white stain. He dropped them again in revulsion.  
  
  
_Maybe he’d just had a wet dream_ , he tried.  _Maybe he’d just checked on Ariadne, fallen asleep and it had happened without him realising he’d taken his briefs off_. But the reality wavered into view, a slurred memory that was resolving with horrible clarity.  
  
  
He wound the video stream from the bedroom cameras back. Ballard climbed into bed, then Ariadne. The light dimmed, they rolled and jerked in sleep, then he saw. Ariadne ( _he tried to remember it was Antonia, but the base part of his brain refused to take the thought on no matter what he did_ ), her back glowing like the moon in the muzzy dark, the shadows of Ballard’s hands clamped over her buttocks as she shifted and rolled back and forth. They were fucking, no doubt about it, and he’d watched it and jerked off like a teenager over an anonymous bit of porn. He’d watched her, mouth watering as he groaned her name and fisted his cock in the dark of his lonely bed, hips pumping into thin air as he came into his briefs, desperate and sloppy as he’d ever been.  
  
  
“Shit,” he hissed out loud. Shame was mixing with nausea and he felt seasick all over again, but he couldn’t look away. He wound forwards, past the act itself, and watched Ariadne climb off the bed, grabbing a robe from the floor and cinching it tight at her waist. Ballard caught her hand as she slunk from the room, trailing her fingers in a lazy caress then fell back, fumbling at his crotch under the covers before throwing something towards the wastebasket. She’d made him use a condom, he noted with grim satisfaction that he immediately shoved aside.  _Of course she had, she wasn’t an idiot_.  
  
  
He switched views and found her in the bathroom. She turned on the shower, then stopped at the basin, washing her face and checking herself in the mirror. She stopped for a moment, examining herself, one hand touching each cheek in turn. As she stood there the lines of her body softened for a moment, not quite a slump, but not quite the straight line of determination he was so used to seeing.  _What was this costing her?_  He felt his heart lurch. She’d wanted to learn everything, he reminded himself. He’d dressed her in this armour, freed her onto this world, but somehow he had made himself forget the woman underneath because it was too much for him to look at. The human side of Ariadne, the empathy and the honesty innate to her nature, were they breaking it after all?  
  
  
She lifted her head, and he could hear the deep breath she was pulling into her lungs. Then she smiled at her reflection, gentle and calm, and turned away. As she reached for the belt of her robe, Arthur stopped the playback and closed the window down. He held the solid body of his smart phone in his fist, the screen now dark, showing nothing more than the reflection of his own face.

 

  
~*~

 

He made it to the office before lunch, having endured the Metro and its rough ride downtown with nothing more than the occasional twinge in his stomach. When he opened the door the smell of coffee washed over him, and there was Eames, sitting at his desk with his laptop open, headphones on, pen in hand as he scribbled furiously.

 

“Good morning,” he said loudly, and Eames looked up, pulling out the earbuds and meeting him with a nod.

 

“Morning. I’m just checking the footage from last night. Ballard is quite the little chatterbox.” Arthur swallowed the question in his mouth and opted for neutrality, despite the urge to grab the laptop away from Eames and tear a strip off him for watching it.

 

“Anything useful?” Arthur made for the coffee maker and poured himself a large cup, black and unsweetened.

 

“A few things,” Eames admitted. “He mentions wanting to take her to see his art collection. He gives her a platinum and diamond pendant, which I suspect was more of a sweetener than he’d like to admit. He talks about his mother a lot, which would probably give Freud a field day.” Eames flipped back through his notes. “Says some stuff about his siblings, mentions he’s been lonely until he met Antonia, calls her some sickly sweet names which quite frankly almost made me lose my breakfast—”

 

He forced himself to take a calming breath. “Why didn’t you wait for me to come in before you reviewed it?”

 

Eames looked up, his eyebrows bunching in a frown. “Why would I do that? It needed to be done, Arthur and I’m just as capable as you of making observations on Ballard, if not better qualified to do so.”

 

“Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” he countered. “You might have missed something important.”

 

“Really?” Eames folded his hands on his writing pad. “Is that what this is about? My ability to do my job?”

 

“I’m not doubting you, I’m just saying—”

 

“You want to know if she slept with him, don’t you?” Eames’ inflection was flat. “Well, let me put your mind at ease. She did, then they fell asleep, got up and had breakfast. It’s all here on film. Happy now?”

 

He gulped down a mouthful of coffee rather than answer, anything to avoid letting on what he’d actually done last night, letting the hot liquid burn down his throat and hit the acid pool of his stomach like lava. Eames didn’t move a muscle, just carried on watching him with a face like granite.

 

“What’s the problem? If this was Sittenfield we were using you wouldn’t have given a flying fuck who watched the tapes. In fact you’d probably make me do it because I’m better at it than you, and you could carry on digging around Ballard’s business and background. This is a job, Arthur. It’s a mark who needs cracking, and Ariadne,” Arthur flinched at the mention of her name before he could stop himself. “Is doing that the best way we could find to do so.”

 

“I’m going to review the footage as well,” he set his jaw stubbornly as Eames’ eyes narrowed.

 

“This is ridiculous. First you try to have a pissing contest with Ballard in person no less; then last night you got shitfaced, something I have never, ever seen you do during a job; and now you’re pretty much clutching your pearls at the idea of anyone else watching Ariadne, in character as someone else I might add, fucking our mark.” The verb sliced through Arthur like a fist wrapped in barb wire and he felt his lip start to curl, but Eames carried on regardless. “You’re acting like— actually, I have no idea what you’re acting like, because this is whole new side to you that I am discovering. What I do know for certain is that if you don’t let her get on and do her job while you get your head back in the game, we are royally screwed.”

 

Eames stood up, gathering up his papers and pen. “What you’re failing to understand is something that Ariadne grasps entirely too well. Ballard thinks that power lies in a big pile of cash, a fist or a loaded gun. That force is the only way of applying pressure. But she knows that for women, their power is in their ability to be ornaments and trophies; that to men like Ballard their beauty is their value before anything else. She’s using that against him, and if you can’t see that that’s what this is, then—” He broke off, shaking his head, looking at Arthur as he stood rooted to the spot. “Fine, whatever you like. We’ll review it together. I don’t care, just as long as it gets you to realise that this is just a means to an end.”

 

Arthur swallowed hard, refusing to look away from Eames’ brutal stare. He’d been called on the carpet, feeling like everything he thought he was hiding had spilled out in the light of day in all its ugly, naked glory.

 

“No, it’s fine. You’re right.” He replied tightly. “You’re the best person to observe Ballard. I was wrong. I apologise.”

 

Eames sighed. “Get it together, Arthur. I don't know what to suggest to you, but you’ve got to stop this stupid territorial bullshit that’s fucking with your head, or else put it away until we’re done.”

 

“I apologise,” he repeated, pushing the roiling thoughts in his head aside as hard as he could. “I’ll get back to tracing through his financial records while you finish up with that.”

 

He ignored Eames as he tracked him across the office, took a seat at his desk, set his laptop down dead centre and fixed his attention on it with all the willpower he could muster. He waited for Eames to speak again, but nothing happened.

 

When he dared look over five minutes later, Eames had put his headphones back in and was transcribing once more, his concentration absolute.

 

  
~*~

  
  
Ariadne finally made it to their office three days later, surprising both himself and Eames by breezing in just after nine am, dressed as Antonia and smiling brightly. She looked as perfect as was required, except that now a white metal chain holding a diamond pendant peeked from under her shirt collar, twinkling like a badge of possession.  
  
  
“I lost the tail he’s decided I need, before you both panic,” she said by way of greeting, dropping her portfolio on her table. “Good, there’s coffee.” She sighed gratefully, making her way to the machine with all the eagerness of a caffeine addict.  
  
  
“How are things going?” Arthur said neutrally as she shrugged, distracted by fixing her drink. He watched her, greedily studying the lines of her body, the tilt of her head, the sound of her voice. What was he looking for? Proof that everything with Ballard was an act? What would be enough to make him believe it? She’d slept with him, but nothing about her indicated she was disturbed by having to have done so, to have shared a physical intimacy. Had she liked it? Had everything in that video been more genuine than he dared to believe? He snapped back to the present as she replied.  
  
  
“I have enough to get started now,” she turned, sipping her drink with an almost obscene pleasure. “I was thinking a castle, like a fortress keep for the second level so he feels safe enough to manifest the details of his collection. He’s got this real obsession with his family and heritage, so an ancestral home type arrangement would do perfectly.” She wandered to her desk, taking another gulp of her coffee. “How about you guys?”  
  
  
“Well, we know for sure now he’s subsecurity trained,” Arthur watched her perch on her table, her attention fully on him. “The extractor who did it was a man named Irving. Old school, military approach, predictable but vicious.”  
  
“So he’s going to be defensive,” Ariadne nodded to herself. “But he’s likely to project Antonia, so we can use that, right?”  
  
“We can,” Eames glanced at Arthur quickly. “I propose that I take the first level, Arthur takes the second and you appear as Antonia and extract the information. We can catch the projection and take her out, which should leave you clear to play along with him.”  
  
Arthur made himself nod. “That’s a good idea.” He ignored the mock surprised face Eames was making out of the corner of his eye. “His security will intensify further down, so I can take care of that while you take care of him.”  
  
“You’re OK with that?” She frowned. “I mean, you trust me to pull it out?”  
  
“You’re the logical choice,” Arthur admitted, hoping to God he sounded impassive. He’d been trying to keep his emotions divorced from everything since Eames had laid down the law, but still he felt the sticky pull of his less rational side trying to muddle things, make them cloudy when all he wanted was clarity, for this job to be over so he could stop getting in his own way every time he thought of her in Ballard’s hold. “You’ve built a relationship with him, and that’s what we need to use.”  
  
  
Ariadne swallowed, and for a moment her expression was unreadable. She was looking at him, lips slightly parted as if she was going to speak, but at the last moment changed her mind.  
  
“Well,” Eames said with finality. “Good, that’s settled then. We’ll talk over the approach in a minute, once I’ve had a smoke.” He pulled his coat on, patting his pockets down and fishing out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a heavy brass lighter.  
  
“Don’t be long,” Arthur warned him. “We need to move in the next few weeks, and everything needs to be ready.”  
  
“I shall be at your service,” Eames popped a cigarette in his mouth and made for the door. “No making any decisions until I’m back, you hear?” He winked at Ariadne cheerfully as he made for the door, and she chuckled.  
  
“Fine, go feed your habit.” She slid off the desk and unzipped her portfolio, spreading out some rough sketches. “We can start looking these over, right Arthur?”  
  
“Sure,” he stood up and made his way over to her. She was arranging the sketches into sequence, and barely noticed him at her side until he cleared his throat.  
  
  
“These are good,” he started, not daring to look at her, but instead fixing on the lines of the round towers, the conical roofs and waving banners.  
  
  
“Thank you,” Ariadne said quietly. “He’s got this strange idea about antiquity, knights and chivalry and shit,” she said. Without looking, he could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s straight out of a storybook, I swear. For such a smart man he’s got some really childish notions.”  
  
  
Arthur nodded. She was so close to him he could smell her perfume, and underneath the organic salt of her skin, and it was rushing to his head like the vodka had the night she’d slept with—  
  
  
“Is he treating you well?” The question fell from his lips before he could stop it.  
  
“I—” she hesitated, and he turned to look at her, the faint lines of her frown making him want to lift his hands and ease them away with his fingertips. “I don’t understand why you—?”  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “I just— I don’t want—” He stuttered as he looked at her looking at him, wide eyed and lovely. She was making him thick tongued and stupid, despite all his efforts, and he wished he could just shut his mouth.  
  
  
“Why do you want to know? You can see from the cameras. He’s besotted,” Ariadne’s smile flickered across her face.  
  
“I can, but I wanted to know. From you.” She was frowning properly now, as if she never seen him before and was trying desperately to figure him out.  
  
  
“He’s very,” she rolled her lips between her teeth as she thought. “He’s fine. He believes Antonia wants to be with him. He treats her like men like that do.” She trailed off, blinking anxiously before she plunged in. “What are you really asking me, Arthur? Do you want to know if I’m really into him? That when the time comes if I’ll be able to do my job?”  
  
  
“I don’t doubt you.” He wanted to reach out and touch her so much it made his skin hurt. He was so close, near enough to lean forward and kiss her, and for the first time since Fischer the desire was tearing away from his grasp. “I just want to know you’re OK. With everything.”  
  
“I am OK. It isn’t me with him, Arthur.” She shook her head. “He’s besotted with someone who isn’t real. She looks a bit like me, maybe sounds a bit like me, but Antonia isn’t me. Every intimate thing he’s done has been with her. He doesn’t know me,”she said. She wet her lips and then cautiously put out her hand, bridging the space between them as she touched his cheek, light as if she was touching a spider’s web, and frisson ran through him from his scalp to his feet. He wanted to lean into her touch, grab her hand and press it against his skin, but he was frozen to the spot, desperate not to spook her. “I don’t feel close to him, because he doesn’t know me, and I don’t trust him. Antonia might seem to, but I know what this is. I know what I want, and it isn’t him.”  
  
“Ariadne,” her name was rough in his mouth.  
  
“Arthur,” she murmured, and rose up on her toes, guiding his head down to hers. He felt his eyes close as their lips touched, her mouth soft and determined as it met his, moulding to his lips as he let go of everything and poured it out into their kiss. His hands rose and rested on her hips, feeling the warmth of her coming through the fabric of her clothes as she pressed closer, making a soft purr from her throat. He wanted to bury his hands in her hair, trace every line of her with his fingers, devour her with his mouth. The fire leapt inside him as she ran her nails lightly across the back of his neck, and he pulled her to him, arms wrapping around her back as her tongue traced the seam of his lips, asking for entrance.  
  
  
He knew he groaned when he opened his mouth to her, the moment so real it was almost overwhelming, and he felt the chuckle bubble in her chest. He’d not dared look this full in the face until now, and suddenly it was in his hands, out of the blue, right in the middle of everything, all those months of watching her grow, learning her, and her doing the same, trust and companionship suddenly blooming into this.  
  
  
Ariadne broke off, resting her forehead against his. “Now do you see?”  
  
  
“Oh god, Ariadne,” It was all he could say. He wanted never to let her go or risk shattering this spun glass fragile thing now between them. But Eames was outside, Ballard was waiting, the real world pushing in with the crushing force of a jackhammer.  
  
  
“I know,” she cradled his jaw in her hands, her fingers stroking down his cheeks. “I know my timing sucks, and I know you might decide to push me away, but I needed you to understand. You know me. There are parts of me I only show you, because only you understand them. You’re who I trust. You’re what I want. We share dreams, and that’s so much more intimate than anything Antonia’s done with him. He can never be as close to her as you are to me.”  
  
  
Hearing her speak, saying those quiet words, made part of him howl with desire. The wolf inside wanted to leave marks on her, visible to the world and especially Ballard. He wanted to tear the necklace from around her throat and replace it with love bites and teeth marks, a collar of his own making. But the sane point man with his cold reason stepped in, warning him that it would make him just as bad as Ballard, trying to tie Ariadne to him like Ballard did with Antonia, as if possession was the only way to keep her, locking her in a case the same as loving her. He suddenly knew that’s what this was, just as certainly as gravity was holding him to the earth and oxygen filling his lungs. To love her was see all of her, to be granted the privilege of her trust and to let her chose, not clip her wings.  
  
  
“Ariadne,” he felt as if his brain could only manage her name because she was the only thought in his head now, filling him up and rushing into all the hollow spaces inside. He couldn’t make it stop, didn’t want to, and yet he knew she was right. This wasn’t the time, or the place. “We can’t do this,” she stiffened in his arms for a second and he firmed his hold on her back. “Right now. But I want you to know that I feel,” the word tumbled out, unfamiliar and awkward, making him hesitate. “I feel the same. I have hated every second of seeing you with Ballard, because I wanted to be the man you kissed, the man in your bed, the man who could touch you like he does.”  
  
“You were jealous?” Ariadne laughed gently against his mouth. “Is that why you didn’t want me to do it?”  
  
“I’m not proud of it. But I was.”  
  
“Past tense. Good. That’s not me with him, Arthur. It never was and was never going to be. He sees what he wants, this skin, and calls it Antonia. But you see what I am, and that’s me. And I want you to be that man…”  
  
  
He kissed her this time, unable to stop himself once she’d said the words. His fists bunched in her shirt, and the hunger for her caught in his teeth as she sighed in pleasure. Time was fading out in the rush of her against him, the coffee and toothpaste taste of her mouth, the smell of her shampoo and soap overlaying the tang of her skin, the wonderful sounds he could hear and feel as he drank them all in, thirsty for it all.  
  
  
“Ahem.”  
  
Eames’ loud and deliberate cough seemed to come from right by his ear. Ariadne jumped in his arms, and their mouths and bodies disconnected so fast he wondered if they’d ever been touching to begin with, leaping apart like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.  
  
  
“Well then.” Eames was leaning against Arthur’s desk, arms folded, just a hint of amusement in his eyes. Arthur cursed himself for not hearing the door and granting them just a few seconds to look like they hadn’t been kissing furiously. He could feel the back of his neck getting hot with embarrassment as Eames looked at him, then at Ariadne. “Who’s up for explanations first? Not you, Arthur,” he held up his hand as he went to open his mouth. “You’re going to try and lie, and believe it or not I don’t have the energy.”  
  
  
He risked looking at Ariadne. Her shirt was wrinkled, her lipstick worn from his kisses, and a wonderful little smile came to her face when she caught him. Very, very gently, she reached out and linked their fingers together. When he gripped back her grin was glorious.  
  
  
“Excuse me, I’m still here,” Eames said sharply.  
  
  
Ariadne squeezed Arthur’s hand before turning to Eames with her chin raised defiantly. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”  
  
“Right.” Eames’ face was set. “That’s marvellous, at last, hip hip hoo-bloody-ray. Is it going to be a problem? No, Arthur, don’t you dare,” he snapped as he went to speak again. “You’ve been fucking insufferable, and that was before,” he waved his hand at them, “this. I want to get this done and get paid. Tell me, right now, if we’re ditching Antonia and doing something else, or you’re bailing completely.”  
  
“I’m not going to bail. I’m still good to work on Ballard as Antonia. I promise,” Ariadne added firmly.  
  
“Reassuring. Arthur?” Eames raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to be all right with that?”  
  
  
Arthur turned to look at Ariadne, dressed up in her costume but underneath the woman who he loved, that terrifying cliff dive of a thought making his throat close and his heart slam into his ribs. Ballard couldn’t touch the core of her, no matter what he did. That was what he was allowed, and he clutched it to him with his fists clenched tight.  
  
“I am. I trust you,” he said, unable to look away from her as he spoke, the smile he kept trying to swallow pushing onto his face.  
  
  
“Really,  _**I am still here** _. Christ All-flaming-Mighty,” Eames snapped his fingers. “Look at me, both of you.”  
  
  
Arthur made himself comply. “This isn’t going to be a problem,” he leveled his firmest look at Eames. “We’re going to do the job like we planned.”  
  
“Don’t make me regret going along with this,” Eames warned. “Either of you. What I said before stands. One slip and we will be back here with sweet fuck all. The difference is now we have a hell of a lot more to lose.”  
  
“Message received,” Ariadne replied tartly.  
  
“Loud and clear.” Arthur added, unable to resist the tiniest hint of a smirk at Eames, who narrowed his eyes in return.  
  
  
“Excellent. Well, in lieu of champagne I’m going to celebrate your relationship developing,” the word came out heavy and deliberate, “with a very strong coffee and another cigarette, because God knows I need both right now. By the way, if I come back and find you canoodling again then this is definitely off,” he pointed his finger at them both in turn.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Arthur said smoothly. “We can control ourselves when you’re around.” Ariadne’s nails bit into his hand in silent rebuke and he quelled the urge to look at her, lest he grabbed her again, or started grinning like the loon inside him was. “The job will go just as we planned. I guarantee it.”  
  
  
He stayed completely still until Eames had stomped out again, waiting for a few moments to ensure he had actually gone down the stairs and wasn’t lurking in the hall, waiting to surprise them. Aridne’s hand felt so warm and fragile in his, but even that small touch was enough to make his body react with the thought of being given more, smothering her back or her legs in kisses as she pressed into him.  _That would be delight, a day, a weekend, even a week of just—_  He forced himself to stop.  
  
  
“So,” Ariadne tugged him back to her, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Ground rules, right?”  
  
“Right.” He said reluctantly.  _Of course she was right, as was Eames, damn him. Focus,_  he yelled at himself as his eyes strayed to her mouth again.  _One more kiss,_  the devil on his shoulder suggested.  _Just one more. Eames is gone. It won’t hurt._  He swatted the impulse away.  
  
  
“No intimacies at work,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “We can’t compromise the Antonia persona by—”  
  
“Sexting?” Ariadne finished for him with a seductive little grin. “No, I agree. He can’t be suspicious of her.” She made a rueful face at that, as if she too was imagining how long she could keep him naked and horizontal for, and how long she might have to wait for the chance.  
  
“Not until the job is over. Eames is right, Ballard isn’t an easy take and we can’t get distracted.” He hated every word, but it was the truth and that wasn’t always a pleasant thing, he reminded himself.  
  
“So no deliberate touching, no kissing, no sneaking off for long lunches,” she sighed, but her smile returned. “I can wait, believe it or not. Not that the job is more important than you,” she teased, “but good things are worth waiting for. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes were smoky as she peeped up at him through her eyelashes, a deliberate promise lurking in them. He wanted to groan, push her back on to her table, make her scream his name until the walls shook.  
  
  
“They are,” he felt her shiver as he leaned closer and his voice emerged rough and thick from his lips. “I promise that it will be worth every second.”  
  
  
Ariadne stifled a groan, then braced her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get this done, then.” Quick as a flash she pressed a chaste kiss on his mouth and pulled back. “To keep us going until then,” she promised as she pushed him away.  
  
He took a slow breath. He could taste the chalky perfume of her lipstick on his mouth. He yoked in tightly the impulse to ravish her, and let the point man step to the fore with his cold logic and dispassionate point of view, pushing the energy into that tight channel with a brutish determination.  
  
  
“A castle then?” He leant back over her sketches, and made himself focus.

 

  
~*~


	8. Chapter 8

He stopped watching the feeds from Williamsburg, letting Eames take the job of reviewing them. He didn’t turn to them at night, instead he thought of Ariadne, all the dreams they’d shared together. The flow of passion inside him was clean and hot, the thick tide of jealousy pushed back by the thought of her words. Antonia wasn’t her. Ariadne wanted him. It was enough, he would think with satisfaction. She was coming back, and he wasn’t going to lose her. Nothing Ballard could do would change that.

The thought calmed him, lulled him, and he would sleep, his mind peaceful.

 

~*~

 

Ariadne built two levels for them, an art gallery for Eames and a mock medieval castle for him, working through the days with a fierce concentration, and he couldn’t tell if it was to keep them from slipping up or simply because she was urging them towards the finish. He watched her in his idle moments, since how could he not. The promise of her was smouldering inside him, and every bend over her table, every move of her hands or turn of her head would send erotic images spiralling through his brain. She would catch him sometimes, and smile just a little, as if she could see right into him. Perhaps she could. Perhaps it was just that he would sometimes look up to find her looking at him, her colour warm and her lips glossed, one hand toying with Antonia’s pendant, and he knew that she was allowing herself a few moments of the same thing.

 

If there was the occasional, accidental contact? Well, sometimes it couldn’t be helped. Hands brushing when he passed her a cup of coffee. The sleeve of her jacket sliding over his bare arm as they examined plans together. She might lean forwards and her ass would touch his thigh because he’d managed to get too close behind her for whatever reason. He hated to admit it, but he savoured each second, each glance, each expression on her face, each time he could hold her arm to insert the cannula or close the puncture it left. Scraps fallen from the table to sustain him; the promise of a feast to come. So he would gather them into his hands, clasping them safe, and pull himself back.

 

~*~

 

It took another month before they were all in agreement that things were ready to action. Eames had managed to inveigle himself into Ballard’s mother’s milieu, posing as an interior decorator. “Women like Irene Ballard love a bit of the camp Englishman,” he’d reported gleefully. “She’s a bit of an ice queen, family loyal to the core. She’s drunk the Kool Aid and is quite happy as the Queen Mother of the House of Ballard. Luckily for me, I’m used to old biddies like her. Too much Agatha Christie and Lady Bracknell in my past, I think.”

 

Antonia had continued to date Ballard, managing to secure a trip to his private art collection as well as a family weekend at their house upstate. Ariadne had come back both times with a clutch of notes, her fingers itching to modify the mazes and designs.  
“I think he has it, you know.” She told them with calm confidence. “He’s got a lot of pieces that indicate there’s an aspect of creating a heritage, of appearing to cultivate a legacy for the family through things as well as deeds. He’s got a Rembrandt, a Titian, a Rubens, a couple of Van Goghs, a Manet and a Monet, Holbein, Cezanne, Gauguin, Klimt,” she broke off to breathe in. “It’s a mashup of pre 1920’s, high value work, but he loves them, every single one. He talked for hours about the quality of the face in Salvator Mundi, the colour of the robe, the texture in the hair as well as how pissed he was not to get it when it came up for auction. So if he’s got it he’s using it for both ends. The element of beauty as well as money.”

“That must be why he likes you so much.” Eames had deadpanned, smirking to himself as he dodged a wadded up ball of paper aimed for him head.

 

The time had seemed to stretch endlessly for Arthur some days, teasing out the intricacies of the Ballard empire, learning the maze, testing it in dreams. His brain and body knew the process so well some days they seemed to carry on automatically, marking the time off in completed action, forcing him to come up to his rigorous standards even when Ariadne crept into his thoughts. Wait, the point man would order. Work. No fun until the job is done. And so he would snap his focus back, remembering it was her back they were going to protect this time, and if ever he could not afford to fail it was now.

 

~*~

 

It was a blustery October day when they finally sat down and carried out their last minute checks. The sky outside was marbled grey, lowering down onto the city with the menace of winter, and the wind whistled around the window frames in a sputters of dead leaves. Hallowe’en was a week away, and the store fronts he passed on the way to the office were a riot of leering masks, carved pumpkins and bags of bright candies, witches, zombies and orange, green and purple sparkles, glowing in the thin light with sickly promise.

 

They gathered around his desk, Eames’ coffee smelling suspiciously of pumpkin spice, and ignoring the weather pummeling the building, had a final run through.

“So, remind me of the key things to mention before you slip him the mickey.” Eames tapped his pen on his notepad as he waited for Ariadne to reply.

“The copy of the Vermeer that I’ve put up. How he’s been such a successful businessman. That I am someone he can trust.”

“And?” Eames prompted.

“His family name.” Ariadne finished. “So it ties in to the fact his desire for success is linked to carrying on their legacy, which is something his mom has emphasised since he was a kid. Which has also led him to make less than legitimate dealings in order to further it. How’s that?”

“Not bad. I’ll use the forge of his mother to reinforce you as trustworthy, so when you drop down she should follow along with that idea. Arthur?”

 

“Here’s the sedative.” He put a small glass vial on the desk in front of her. “Drop it into his drink and give it five minutes to take effect. You need to take the PASIV with you, so I’ve taken the liberty of concealing it as something less conspicuous.” He picked it up, newly hidden in a black leather skin that made it look like an ordinary briefcase or carry on. “The somnacin’s loaded and ready to use, so don’t jostle it too much.”

“I promise I’ll be very careful with it.” Ariadne smiled at him and, with a quick sideways flick of her eyes to make sure Eames wasn’t looking, winked cheekily.

 

“Thank you,” he couldn’t resist smiling back at her, but made sure it wiped off his face when Eames looked up from his notes. “All right. DeCreasy has agreed to be our anchor, so she’s meeting us at the whiskey place on Berry at 8.30pm. Lisbon fell through,” he added at Eames’ silent question. “We’ll monitor the feeds, so all you need to do is say when he’s out and we can be there in a few minutes. We’ll clear out here today, we’ll lift the monitoring equipment in Williamsburg tomorrow, and the movers will take Antonia’s things on Friday. Do you have your breakup prepared?”

“A job offer in Europe. I’ve loved every minute but I don’t want to hold him back, so we should both move on and make a fresh start.” Ariadne reeled off. “I’ll tell him tomorrow morning, that way if he overreacts you’ll still be able to give me a hand if I need it.”

 

“That’s good,” he nodded to her. “Eames, you have the gallery memorised?”

“Perfectly, thank you.” He replied crisply. “You have his Disney Princess castle down, I take it?”

“To the last stone.” Arthur shot him a raised eyebrow for emphasis.

 

“Lovely, well,” Eames swept his papers together in a heap and aimed them into the bin for shredding. “Suffice it to say, but you’ve both surprised me by not turning into hormonal teenagers dry humping over the desks when my back is turned, and for that I am grateful.” Ariadne rolled her eyes wearily. “I call Conrad and let her know we’re moving in, if that’s alright with you?”

“It’s your deal,” Arthur levelled at him, refusing to rise to the bait he was offering. “You take the lead.”

 

“Oh Arthur. Do you know how many years I waited for you to say that?” He sighed, adopting a dreamy expression. Ariadne smothered a laugh, turning it into a cough that made Eames’ cow eyes grow another half inch wider. “Are you about to make me the happiest boy in the world?”

 

Obviously his irrepressible side was coming back into force with the promise of a payout, managing to resist even Arthur’s sharpest eye narrow in reply. “Just get to work, Mr. Eames.” He ordered resignedly, watching Eames smirk to himself as the moonstruck look evaporated.

“Spoilsport,” he shot back cheerfully. “Alright then. Last one to the shredder is a rotten egg.”

 

~*~

 

Ariadne opened the door of Antonia’s apartment, hurriedly dressed in her robe, the lace of her camisole peeking from underneath. Arthur made himself ignore it.

“He’s in the bedroom,” she murmured as she ushered them inside. “I thought it would be easier to explain to him as passing out after sex, and this way you won’t have to move him. He’s in his boxers, not naked.” She added as DeCreasy stopped looking around and her expression went slightly sour.

 

Just as promised, when they entered the bedroom Ballard was flat on his back on the bed, mouth slightly agape, snoring and still in his underwear and socks. Ariadne had removed the PASIV from under the bed and set it on the floor, so Arthur went straight to it, making a brief check before he began passing out the leads.

 

“He looks like a real gentleman,” DeCreasy’s upper lip curled a fraction as she leant over Ballard and he let out a particularly rattling snore.

“Well, not all of us have your impeccable taste, Maria.” Eames remarked dryly as he made himself comfortable in the easy chair. “Or your nice, warm feet. How is Sittenfield, by the way?” He added with just the right amount of casual in his voice. DeCreasy flipped him the bird in response, before taking her tablet and a handgun from her backpack.

 

“I’ve got the feeds on the entry, both the elevators and the corridor outside,” she supplied briskly. “His security are in an SUV in the parking lot, so that gives us two minutes at their slowest if they start thinking something’s up.”

 

Arthur sat down on the floor next to the side of the bed Ariadne had taken, and rolled back his sleeve. “That’s enough time. If you have a problem, start the cue and push the stimulant on Eames. We’ll follow him up.” He lay back, resting his hands on his stomach and risked a quick look at Ariadne. She had lain down on her side, and while she appeared relaxed he could see the excitement and the tension in her eyes as she looked back at him. No smile, just a brief nod.

“Ready?” DeCreasy interrupted.

“Let’s go,” he replied, holding Ariadne’s gaze.

The PASIV hissed. Her eyes above him blurred into golden puddles, and the dream swallowed him whole.

 

~*~

 

He blinked, and the world cleared in an instant. He was standing in a narrow room with deep red walls and a highly polished parquet floor. Above him the ceiling rose into a gentle arch, so the soft chatter of the milling projections echoed above their heads.

 

In front of him a large canvas in a heavy golden frame showed The Massacre of The Innocents, an agonising mass of bodies, four men towering over cluster desperate women, wrenching and contorting them with their violence; one making to stab, another swinging the body of a child wildly above his head with both hands, fallen infants already at his feet. Ballard’s taste obviously ran to the beautiful and the painful then, he noted absently as he turned to take in the gallery around him.

 

His first task was to find and remove Antonia with as little disturbance as possible. He saw Ballard on the other side of the room, his attention absorbed in small painting hung at head height. Eames was moving towards him, weaving through the crowd with a determined air. He caught Arthur’s eye, giving him a sly smirk as his shape shifted, narrowing and shrinking into an elegant older woman, her hair in close styled curls, and her green eyes sharp in her oval face. Irene Ballard in all but her incongruous curl of the lips. Arthur tipped him an eyebrow, and Eames let the smirk drop, reaching out with one hand to touch Ballard’s shoulder.

 

Arthur set off, striding through the high, ornate rooms. Eames could take care of Ballard until Ariadne arrived. He had to stay on task now, and that meant clearing the way. He scanned the crowds, taking in the less populated alcoves and side rooms Eames had built in at the same time. The dream wasn’t aggressive yet, but it felt wary. The projections sauntered to and fro, dressed in the height of modern elegance, sipping champagne and talking as they soaked up the art works, but there was a lingering edge to them. Looks holding a fraction too long, frowns and tight expressions when they caught his eye, and he noticed that Ballard had taken it on himself to project armed security guards, hulking walls of muscle shoehorned into tuxedos with very visible hand guns in their belts. He could feel the weight of his Glock in the small of his back, which was some small comfort at least, and he knew the layout almost as well as Eames, which was another.

 

He caught sight of what he hoped was Antonia in one of the grand halls, tall rooms made imposing with Corinthian columns and more challenging with a pair of staircases that interlocked as they rose and fell. Her resemblance to Ariadne knocked him off balance for a second, her shiny pinned up curls and softly made up face arrowing through him as he strode towards her.

 

“Antonia Keele?” He touched her shoulder, and she whirled round to face him, batting his hand away. There was no recognition in her eyes, an almost dismissive air as she flicked her glance over him. Not Ariadne, he reminded himself.

“Yes?” She replied with remote politeness. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Ballard is asking for you. Can you come with me?”

Instantly Antonia’s face lit up. “Michael? Of course!”

“This way,” he took her arm, and a shiver ran through the projections around them, instantly making him drop his hold. “Follow me,” he lowered his voice, dropping into a deferential pose instead.

 

He led her away, making up the stairs as she chattered about Ballard, what a wonderful partner he was, a great cook, an intellect and business leader. Arthur set his jaw and nodded along, offering only the occasional “You’re very lucky,” or, “He sounds very talented.” This was massaging Ballard’s ego by proxy, and he knew it, but if it kept her compliant it was a small price to pay.

 

She followed him to the top floor, down a corridor to a small office. There were no projections here yet, least of all the armed ones, but even so he would have to be quick. He tensed and released his hands as he walked, reminding himself all it would take was one move.

 

She walked through the door as he held it open, her compliments about Ballard still filling her mouth, and as she did so he took a rapid step forward, crowding into her back, reached out and clamped his hands around her skull. He couldn’t see her face, and he counted that as a blessing. Doing this with eyes like Ariadne’s fixed on him would have unsettled him too much. It’s not her, it’s not her, it’s not her he chanted to himself as he flexed his fingers tightly around her. Her hair was slippery and her head tried to jerk in his grip, but her indrawn breath cut off as he twisted with a sharp motion, her neck bones cracking loudly as she went limp, her knees buckling as she dropped to the floor. The air around him seemed to tremble for a second, Ballard’s unconscious sensing the change and starting to react.

 

He carefully picked up Antonia’s body, and moved it behind the long drapes that dressed the window. He locked the door behind him, then hurried down into the gallery, making back towards Ballard.

 

He was a room away, maybe less, when he felt the dream shift. Not a deliberate change, nothing around him altered, but the projections who had been following him with their eyes, mouths razor thin and bodies tensed as if waiting for the command to pounce, blinked almost as one, then started to mill about again, their mood switching to lightness once more. The stab of worry in his gut was instant; for her and also for Eames. If she had tried to pull a Mr. Charles the hair’s breadth of leeway they had would only remain as long as Ballard played along.

 

He pushed through the crowds, desperately looking for them, but pulled up short when he caught sight of Ballard. He was down on one knee, holding Ariadne’s hand as she stood before him in her guise as Antonia. He looked deliriously happy, his face shining brighter than the diamond now glinting on her hand as she smiled back, her other hand resting on his cheek as if she was soothing a child.

 

“You’ve made an excellent choice, my son.” Irene Ballard laid a matronly arm around Ariadne’s shoulder. “She is the perfect girl to join our family. You can trust her to carry our name.”

“Thank you, mother.” Ballard refused to tear his eyes from Ariadne’s face. “My dear heart, my little angel, my sweet cherry,” Irene gave a very Eames like eye roll which Arthur caught. “Come, let me show you everything.”

“Thank you Michael,” her expression was soft. “You can relax now. Everything is fine. You can trust me.” Ballard’s eyes closed as she spoke, a dopey happiness smoothing his features.

“Come,” she helped him stand, then let him wrap his arm around her waist so he could lead her away. Arthur paused for a second, letting them move off, before he sidled over to Eames, who had taken back his own appearance.

 

“What happened?” Even as he spoke, Arthur kept his attention on Ariadne and Ballard, their heads leaning close as if they were whispering secrets.

“He panicked. She was doing fine until something spooked his projections. I could practically feel the damn guards taking aim on the back of my neck.” He heard Eames’ lighter click, and the smell of smoke wafted around them. “So she improvised.”

“What did she do?” Arthur hissed.

“She grabbed hold of him, and told him she loved him and that he could trust her. He went all goofy, then the next thing I know he’s down on the carpet, ring in hand. He is one predictable puppy. All he wants is for her to want to be his possession, marked up and loyal as a spaniel. And mummy dearest’s approval, naturally.” Eames exhaled, flicking ashes on the carpet. “Pillock.”

 

“Who doesn’t want to be loved?” Arthur replied dryly, a twist of admiration shaping his smile. She’d pulled Ballard back into a non violent stance just by reinforcing herself as a constant, trustworthy figure without needing aggression. She’d swung an emotional punch at him instead, and it had knocked him flat to the floor.

“Well, if that’s what you want to call it, be my guest. Come on, let’s follow at a discreet distance, shall we?”

 

~*~

 

Ariadne and Ballard meandered through the rooms, finally reaching a discrete set of stairs tucked in behind wall, the entrance hidden by another overlapping it to appear continuous. They slipped around it, vanishing into gap, and after a short pause Arthur and Eames followed.

 

At the top of the flight was a small room lined with windows, offering only views of the sky. During their run throughs Ariadne had pointed out it would lift the secret closer to the surface of Ballard’s mind using the idea of the sky as clearing, opening, but also unobserved by anyone save the clouds. From where they were crouched on the stairs, they could hear just hear Ariadne speaking in Antonia’s voice, something low and soft that made Ballard chuckle.

“Even with this copy, you can see it’s a jewel,” he said reverently. “And so are you. What I value I protect, and I will keep you as safe as this, I promise.”

In the shadows he saw Eames’ mouth tighten a fraction, doubtless running an unflattering commentary through his head. Arthur doubted it could hold a candle to the one he was keeping in check.

“Let us toast, to our union.” Ariadne said gently. “For making me the happiest woman in the world.” There was a tinkle of glass.

“To you, my precious jewel.” Ballard replied, then there was silence. Arthur counted to himself, reaching ten before there was a muffled thud. Ariadne’s footsteps hurried across the floor, then she appeared at the top of the stairs.

 

“He’s out.” She called quietly, her face relaxing as they came into view. “I thought we’d lost him back there. What happened?” She asked, pinning Arthur down with her blunt gaze.

 

“It might have been killing the Antonia projection that set them off,” he admitted. “I was as quick as I could, but obviously Irving wired him to be over sensitive.”

“Nice catch on that by the way, Ariadne.” Eames added. “A bit extreme, but it did the trick. Just don’t do it lower down, whatever you do. It might stall him, but suggesting you reciprocate is going to bleed into his subconscious and make it harder to ditch him in reality.”

 

“Well next time you can try to think of something in less than a second surrounded by hostile projections all bearing down on you.” She smiled sweetly. “It’s what he wanted to hear, and it worked.”

 

“Eames is right,” Arthur caught her fierce look and deflected it back. He knew how overconfident Ariadne could become, and checking her was vital lest she overreached herself. Proud though he was, he wasn’t about to let it go to her head. “You did well. Positive emotion always trumps negative, but even if it worked here, you can’t let it go any further. He’s got the idea now, so use it, don’t reinforce it.”

Her mouth tightened a fraction. “OK,” she nodded. “Let’s see what he’s made of it then.”

 

They entered the room to find Ballard sprawled on the floor, face down and probably drooling onto the parquet, Arthur thought snidely as he knelt and rolled him onto his back like a sack of meat.

 

“He brought it here, then.” Eames was standing by the far wall, examining the painting with a critical eye. “Even if this is a copy.”

“First level, he was hardly going to spill it that easily.” Arthur lifted the hidden trapdoor that had been placed in the floor and took out the PASIV, lifting the lid and freeing the leads with rapid hands. “It’s on his mind, and that’s what we need.”

 

Ariadne sat down next to him, but before she could take the lead he took her wrist, wanting the reassurance of her touch, even if just for a moment. He knew she hadn’t really declared her love for Ballard, but all the same.

“May I?” He asked.

“Of course,” Ariadne replied earnestly, relaxing as he inserted the cannula and fastened the tape. He stroked her arm with his fingers, one brief caress, then let go so she could lie back.

 

“With him out, Irving’s measures will kick in.” Arthur snapped back into line, addressing Eames as he put in his own needles.

“Let me worry about that, darling.” Eames turned away from the painting, kneeling down in front of the PASIV. “You just have sweet dreams.” He crooned, depressing the switch before Arthur could reply.

 

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur opened his eyes with a snap. He could hear the crack of banners waving in the brisk wind, and above him the sky was a rich, velvet blue. He was lying on a soft bank of grass, head cushioned on his hands in a position of rest. Voices suddenly welled up, cheering and calling, and there was the thud of rapid hoof beats.

 

He sat up, and in front of him the grey stone walls of a castle Ariadne had fondly called a stylistic mish-mash rose to pointed towers, just right for hiding princesses. Huge, bright coloured flags flew from every point, showing fire breathing dragons and pouncing lions, chained leopards and blowsy roses. In the open field before the huge wooden drawbridge and vicious portcullis a large, brightly dressed crowd had gathered around a long strip of ground, and in the midst of it he could see two men on horseback, both in full armour, tilting at each other with striped lances. In the centre of the crowd was a dias, on which a woman he hoped was Ariadne sat in ridiculously full skirted and layered dress with floating sleeves and a ribboned bodice, her hair braided with pearls and wound up on her head, the diamond pendant shining around her neck. Next to her sat an older woman, recognisably Ballard’s mother, her grey hair covered with a head cloth and wearing a darker, plainer dress, save for the highlights of gold thread embroidery which glinted in the sun.

 

As he watched, one the knights, dressed in golden armour, riding a white horse and carrying a shield bearing a lion in bright yellow, stopped at the dias and bowed his head. Ariadne laughed merrily, and plucked a small square of lacy white cloth from her bodice, shyly putting it into his gloved hand. The crowd cheered again as the knight flourished the handkerchief before tying it to his shoulder. That had to be Ballard, Arthur decided. Acting out his hero fantasies like a Ren Faire player. He patted the small of his back, feeling for the familiar weight of his gun under the cream doublet and shirt he found himself dressed in. Well, it could be worse, he decided. He could have fetched up in curly toed shoes and a jester’s cap, carrying a lute and waving a bladder on a stick.

 

He got up, scanning the crowd and making for the tournament field in a what he hoped was a casual manner. Around him people bustled, some tearing into giant turkey legs with eager bites, some gossiping and laughing as the milled around the booths that had started to materialise, hawking leather goods, jewellry and on one an arresting display of knives. So Ballard was feeling the nature of the dream then, he noted grimly.

 

He slipped to the edge of the crowd, and swept up a tray bearing two golden goblets that someone had left. Adopting an air of meek servitude he rounded the throng and bowed to the armed guards either side of the steps to the dais. They eyed him for a long moment, then moved their spears aside and let him pass. He had to get close enough now to find out if Ariadne was in place, or if he needed to remove the projection of Antonia so she could take it. He hadn’t seen her in the crowd, but it never hurt to be sure.

 

He moved to Ballard’s mother first, offering her a drink and bowing politely as she waved him away as only someone used to servants would. He turned, and caught what he hoped was Ariadne’s eye. She looked at him, and a tiny smile of recognition curved up her lips, making a cool wave of relief wash over him.

“Thank you,” she said in Antonia’s voice. “The day is hot, and I am in need of refreshment.”

“Do not worry, my dear.” Ballard’s mother leaned across and patted her hand. “We will retire indoors shortly, and leave the serfs to their sport.”

“Perhaps mother, if I might excuse myself early? I am a little fatigued, and need to relieve myself.”

 

But as Ariadne spoke the crowd cheered again, there was the crack of splintering wood and Ballard’s mother sat back, applauding. “No need, daughter. See, your champion has won the day.”

 

Arthur stepped back as the thud of hoofbeats softened. The vanquished knight lay sprawled on the ground, his horse stopped and looking down at him in apparent confusion, while Ballard cantered to a stop by the dais and lifted the visor of his helmet.

“Madam,” he saluted his mother, who inclined her head with a smile. “My love,” he looked at Ariadne as he spoke in a softer voice. “I have your token to thank for my victory. You are the jewel of my keep, and the mistress of my heart.” He bowed his head as Ariadne rose, letting him take her hand and press a kiss to it.

“Thank you, my lord. Come, let us retire. You have fought well, defended the honour of our house and emerged as its champion. Look to your men, then join us in the castle so we may celebrate as a family.” Ballard dropped his head again, offering her another kiss. She pressed her hand to his cheek, then moved away as the crowd cheered again.

 

“Come,” she spoke crisply as she swept past Arthur, hitching her skirts in one hand and beckoning him with the other, striding ahead and leaving him to trail in her wake. “You are needed inside, Richard.”

“Of course, my lady.” He bowed to her, falling in step behind her as they crossed the grass, clomped across the drawbridge, the open yard and into the castle proper. Once the door was closed behind them, Ariadne glanced around the small, wood panelled hall then took his arm and pulled him closer.

 

“I took out the Antonia projection,” she murmured. “The body’s in a haystack, next to the stables. I had to improvise.”

“Well, unless they decide to overfeed the horses we should be OK. You’re armed?” Arthur replied.

Ariadne patted her hip. “I shot her in the back of the head. It was easier than having to look at my own face getting blown apart.”

“I can imagine,” he replied dryly. “Have you seen the painting yet?”

 

“No. I’ve been trying to get in here for what feels like the last half hour, and I’m hoping—” She broke off suddenly as the door banged open. “—and see the table is prepared correctly, Richard.” She snapped in a haughty voice, flicking her hand at him as she turned away. “Michael,” she carried on warmly, opening her arms as Ballard strode through the door, his armour gone and his face flushed with exertion. “My love,” she cooed as he bent to kiss her.

“Away with you,” Ballard commanded Arthur, seeing him lurking behind her. “My lady and I would be alone.”

“My lord,” Arthur said through tight lips, bowing briefly as he backed from the room, watching Ballard pull Ariadne into his arms, forcing himself to turn away before they kissed.

 

He slipped into the corridor and began to walk through the maze, heading for the great hall at the centre. He noted the high, vaulted ceilings, the windows with their diamond panes of glass, and the rich carpet covering the flagstones as he went, anachronisms jostling to outdo each other he thought with a satisfied sneer. Weapons hung from the walls, maces and morningstars, axes and knives, spears and swords glinting naked in the light. He hadn’t placed so many, he was sure of that, unless his faint jealousy was trying to manifest in creative ways to hack Ballard to pieces. At his heart he knew he had nothing to fear, Ballard wasn’t his rival for Ariadne, but it didn’t entirely stop him feeling pangs when she was in his hold. He clamped down on the emotion, pulling himself into check as he skirted a cluster of female projections chattering to each other as they passed him, shooting him sharp looks as they went.

 

He crept up a flight of spiral stairs, making for the minstrel’s gallery Ariadne had built into the great hall. He wanted a view of the action, not to be in the pell mell of it where he would be more vulnerable, and he knew she had taken care to add a secret door and stairs as an escape route. He ducked to one side as a pair of guards stomped past him, their expressions suspicious until he lowered his head meekly, waiting until they had clanked down the stairs before he opened the door and slipped inside.

 

The great hall was placed at the heart of the maze, set inside branching corridors and dizzying spiral staircases that locked it into a web of confusing pathways. As Arthur glanced down he took in the rich tapestries hung from the walls, threads of gold, blue and crimson picking out scenes of battle and festing; the carved wooden panels with trims of leaves and roses, and the large, white fireplace over which was a carved crest that was the exact copy of the shield Ballard had carried. The long table before the fire was set with golden plates and goblets, and a display of fruit and flowers that any historian would have paled to see sat before the two high backed chairs in the centre, the prime position for the lord and lady. He took it in with satisfaction. The perfect setting for someone like Ballard, a man who thought of himself as a noble king carrying on old traditions, even if they bore as much relationship to reality as a movie to a history book.

 

He turned around, and carefully took stock of his position. The rifle he had placed was tucked in under the balcony screen, and there was a crossbow hanging on the wall. A gentle press to the panelling on the left hand side revealed the tiny staircase, just wide enough for him to slip down to the hall, or lower down to a door that led back outside to the fields, and back if he needed. He was considering another check on Ballard’s projections, when he heard voices in the hall below and instinctively dropped into a crouch. He heard Ariadne, her throaty voice warm and flattering, as the doors opened with a heavy creak.

 

“Come, my lord. Let us feast, and you may tell me of your deeds.”

“Indeed, my jewel. I have so many things to recount. I am skilled as a warrior and defender of the realm, of all that which is in my domain. I have trained, and learned, and fought, so this might be a place of safety. Impregnable, untouched by time, a place for us to belong.”

 

And modest too, Arthur added to himself snidely, reaching ever so gently for the crossbow, clasping the stock with care as he drew it too him. There was a sudden blare of trumpets from below, a triumphal fanfare that made him start, then a booming voice yelled:

 

“Our most revered and loved Lord and his Lady!” The trumpets set off again, and there was applause. Risking a quick look, he saw Ballard and Ariadne making through a rank of projections all dressed in mock medieval finery, Ballard bowing his head and waving graciously. As they took their seats the trumpets blared again.

 

“Her Grace, the Dowager Lady!” Ballard’s mother swept in, her head held high as she dropped a small curtsey to Ballard, then gracefully glided to a chair at his left. Projections Arthur recognised as Ballard’s his younger brother and sister, his uncles and then his cousins filled the seats, followed his three closest business associates, and finally his head enforcer. With a grain of satisfaction Arthur noted that he had the seat furthest from his concealed entrance point.

 

As they settled, more projections seated themselves at the tables set down either side of the hall, and a wave of chatter began to rise. After a pause, a small group of musicians began to play, a twinkly tune on a high pitched reeded horn and a set of stringed instruments that resembled lutes. Through the large main doors a troop of servants filed in, plates in hand, setting down food and bowing, pouring wine and bowing, bowing to Ballard over and over again like good, grateful peasants while he beamed and waved them away. Next to him, Ariadne leant closer and whispered something that made him turn to her, smiling indulgently. He bowed his head to meet hers, picking at his meal with one hand and talking as she widened her eyes, appeared to gasp and laid her hand on his chest. Ballard laughed, then carried on, his lips grazing dangerously close to her ear.

 

Arthur had no real idea how long he watched them, or the others on Ballard’s table, most of whom were taking in his behaviour with a good natured air. Even Ballard’s mother was smiling as she watched, a warmth and approval radiating from her that seemed to be infecting everyone around them. Ariadne was obviously hooked into him, the idea of her as part of Ballard’s trusted circle firmly working out into the dream.

 

He waited, and finally her eyes darted up to his hiding place, catching him and giving the smallest wink she could manage, their prearranged signal. She’d got him fixed, and he’d mentioned the painting. Now he had to help her get to it.

 

Arthur stole down the small staircase, and felt around in the dark for the catch that opened the concealed panel into the great hall. He wasn’t overly keen on what he had to do next, not least because it meant walking right into the heart of Ballard’s dream and showing himself, but as Ariadne had reasoned one of Ballard’s strongest motivating forces was defending and possessing. Forcing him to act would be faster, and less likely to give him time to reason with the dream’s logic.

He inhaled, then lifted the crossbow to his shoulder and ripped the panel open. With one quick move he aimed and fired, the bolt thunking free and hitting Ballard’s mother in the forehead. Her look of surprise was almost ridiculous as she fell forwards into her food. The projections took a moment to catch up, the talk stopping instantly as they realised they had an aggressor in their midst.

 

Ballard’s enforcer was on his feet in the next moment, but Arthur had already taken aim, and the bolt in his chest made him stagger back, one hand to the bleeding wound, his mouth opening to bellow as Arthur hit him in the eye.

 

Ballard grabbed Ariadne, seeing Arthur take aim at her. “No!” He yelled, as his projections rose to their feet.

“Move and she dies,” Arthur shouted back. “You cannot keep her safe!” He aimed wide and the next bolt pinged off the fireplace. He could hear doors slamming back, and a rush of running feet.

 

“Defend our Lord and Lady!” Someone screeched and a mass of voices rose in roaring agreement. Arthur held his nerve, refusing to feel the cold sweat trying to crawl down his back. He turned, and fired into the approaching noble projections, the bolts hitting home with heavy strikes. The doors all around the hall suddenly burst open, and a mass of men and women streamed in, dressed in ragged clothes, their faces furious behind the grime smeared on their cheeks.

 

Arthur dropped the crossbow, and lept back behind the panel, slamming it closed and throwing a beam across it. He ran back up the stairs, bolted the other door and pressed himself against the side wall. Below him the mob were flinging themselves against the wall where he’d vanished, while yet more were making towards Ariadne. “Come on, come on, come on,” Arthur whispered to himself. He’d woken up Ballard’s security, and he’d warned her that once that was done they would attack anything alien, including her.

 

“Michael,” Ariadne pleaded, clutching his arms as they encircled her. “Protect me, please!” Ballard looked from her, back to the unwashed mob streaming through the doors brandishing blades, axes and torches.

“Of course, my lady.” He reached out behind him, pressing down on carved rose in the panelling on the wall. There was a thunk, and a doorway slid open, a tiny room beyond just visible. “We shall be safe here. Nothing shall strike at the heart of my realm.” He pushed Ariadne inside, shielding her with his body as backed in. The door slammed just as the mob reached it, fists beating on the wood, hacking at it even as it repelled their blows.

 

“Burn it!” A thin voice screamed, and the crowd howled with approval. Arthur felt his gut sour. Time to bring this to an end. He let go the control he was using to keep his projections in check, and stepped out further on to the balcony to get a clearer view below him, Glock in hand. He was going to have a limited effectiveness with it at this range, but picking off a few choice targets would grant Ariadne a few more precious minutes, and he didn’t have time to reach for the rifle he’d hidden. He took aim, fired and one of the leaders staggered and fell forwards, slumping against the panels in a smear of blood. As one the mob turned, and the flat glitter of rage in their eyes was palpable. He aimed and fired again, and again, bright circles of red blooming in a pair of foreheads.

 

“There!” A woman yelled. “It’s him!” The mob roared, baying and screeching, and more of them rushed towards his side of the hall. An axe whizzed past his head, burying itself in the wall behind him, followed shortly by another. He dropped to the floor, grabbing his rifle, all the time thinking of claws and teeth, sleek fur and wrinkled muzzles—

 

Suddenly there was another noise, a throat ripping howl of threat and fury, drowning out the crowd as they surged forwards. Arthur stood, just in time to see the doors burst open and wolves surge into the space below, a tide of rushing bodies tumbling into the crowd like a wave breaking on the shore. Someone screamed, then another, and another, until the whole room was a whirlpool of panic, snapping jaws, whining and falling bodies fractured by terrified screeching and the smell of singeing fur. For every wolf the mob destroyed five more came, leaping over their fallen pack mates in an unending flood. Ballard’s projections, having been taught to defend against a man shaped foe, were in chaos, sensing that the pack wasn’t part of their nature, but unable to stem its flow into their midst.

 

Arthur pulled the rifle into position, took aim and as the door into the gallery flew back he fired. The first projection felled the second by tripping him, making the knife in his hand stab into his chest in a pratfall that was almost comic. The third hesitated, long enough for Arthur to shoot him in the chest, the fourth fled, white faced and wide eyed; apparently deciding between the danger of death at Arthur’s hands or the pack’s, wolves presented the lesser evil. He slammed the door closed, blockading it with the projection’s bodies, and turned back to the hall. A couple of more creative projections had decided to climb the tapestries while his back was turned, one veering dangerously close to his eagle’s nest. He fired again, picking her off, then took the others out, their bodies landing in the writhing mass of the wolf pack and vanishing beneath them.

 

“Come on Ariadne,” he muttered to himself, “get out of there so we can go.” He reloaded and fired again, and again. Ballard’s projections were now falling back, their terrified cries fading into the maze as the pack pushed them back. Bodies were strewn against the walls, fallen in corners with torn clothes and flesh livid in the lights, some twitching spasmodically as they bled out, others groaning as teeth bit out their throats.

As the last cry wilted in the air the pack stilled, turning towards the hidden door as it slid back and Ariadne stepped through, her hands open and stretched in front of her. Arthur watched as very, very slowly the leader of the pack lifted her muzzle and sniffed Ariadne’s palm, nose brushing her skin. He was holding his breath, the moment endless as the she wolf dipped her head, and Ariadne very, very cautiously, rested her hand on her fur.

“Thank you,” she addressed the wolf in her own voice, only a slight hint of nervousness betraying her. As he watched the pack moved forwards, bright eyed but with their heads held low, pressing in around her legs, surrounding her in a protective swirl of bodies until she was enclosed in their midst, each hand resting on the head of the wolves on either side of her. “Thank you,” she repeated, and a ripple of pleased sound rose from them, wrapping her in it and making his own skin prickle.

 

Finally she tilted her head up towards him. “I’ve got it.” She grinned, wide and brilliant, and he couldn’t help but beam back. He had been right all that time ago. She was incredible.

“Did you send him up?”

“Of course,” she scratched behind the right hand wolf’s ears and its eyes narrowed happily. “So let’s go before we give Eames an excuse for complaining he had to amuse Ballard by himself for hours.”

 

Arthur put his rifle down, hopped over the balcony and climbed down the tapestry, the pack parting to let him through when he reached the floor. “There are stairs.” Ariadne pulled him to her, teasing and warm.

“I was trying to impress you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Did it work?”

“You know it did.” She accepted his kiss with a grateful sigh, and he felt her arm uncurl from his shoulders, then the barrel of her gun against his temple. He shifted his grip and copied her, pressing his Glock into the mass of her hair, hard against her skull.

 

“À bientôt.” She whispered.

“Certainement.” He replied, and pulled the trigger just as his vision exploded into white.

 

~*~

 

Sitting in the small bar on Berry, he called up the video feed from the apartment bedroom on his smartphone.

Antonia was lying down next Ballard, her head propped up in one hand. As Arthur watched Ballard snorted into his pillow, and rolled over. “Where am I?” His voice was soggy with sleep. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep, Michael. Don’t you remember?”

“I had the strangest dream. You were there,” Ballard groped towards her, clutching at her cheek. “I saved you,” he mumbled.

“You did?” Antonia said lightly. “Well done. Go back to sleep,” she moved his hand, tucking it next to his head on the pillow, as Ballard started to snore again.

 

Arthur closed the feed down, picked up his glass, took a sip of his whiskey and allowed himself the smallest triumphant smile.

 

~*~


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur didn’t watch Antonia split up with Ballard, leaving that task to Eames instead, who watched it with the same detached air he might watch a soap opera.

“They’re going for lunch,” he finally remarked, just as Arthur’s phone buzzed.

_Gave him the speech. He wants to buy me lunch as a goodbye. Apt is clear for you & E._

 

He quickly shot back a brief line, asking if she was OK. Her reply was equally brief: _Fine._ Arthur tapped his phone for a moment. Besotted though Ballard was, and arrogant enough to assume he could own her like a ornament, he was unlikely to try anything in public, especially with his reputation at stake. All the same, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious, especially this close to an extraction.

 

“How was Ballard?” Eames looked up from his laptop.

“Oh, his lip wobbled, he tried to get her to agree to a long distance thing, he got a bit red around the eyes and made a frowny face. Pleaded briefly. The usual.”

“Fine. Call DeCreasy, tell her I’ll give her a bonus if she keeps an eye on him while he’s at lunch with Ariadne.” Arthur had already started to compose a message to Ariadne, telling her the same thing. Eames forbade to comment, merely shrugged and made an ‘it's your money’ expression.

 

A few moments later Ariadne responded; an eye rolling emoji, followed by a spatter of kisses.

 

 _Better to be safe than sorry_ , he replied, at the last moment adding a pair of x’s for good measure. He was counting the time until they could be alone in hours now, not weeks or days as he had before. He felt like a kid before Christmas, anticipation trying to bubble up and demand time run faster, reach the point where self imposed restrictions could drop and he could shut the world out and her and himself in, playing tug of war with the point man who was sternly insisting that the job had to be finished. Under those conditions, just sending her a kiss felt indecent and wonderful.

 

~*~

 

Ariadne came back to Morningside Heights by early evening. He and Eames had spent the afternoon pulling the cameras and bugs from the Williamsburg apartment, the activity a welcome distraction from other thoughts. Eames had bid him goodbye at Bedford Avenue station, promising to be in touch if anything interesting came up.

“Conrad’s sending the money by wire transfer today, so we’re good to go. It’s been a pleasure as always, Arthur.” He shook his hand briefly, then vanished into the subway station without a backward glance.

Arthur had accorded him the same courtesy, turning away, using activity to divert himself from the realisation it wasn’t much longer now, and the slew of erotic imagery his brain conjured up in response. He walked back to the apartment block to pick up their rental car, ditched the bags of shredded paper from their office, then took himself back to north Manhattan, where he took a run, showered, changed and fussed over his appearance for far longer than he might want to admit to. Finally he’d had no choice but to wait, so he settled the couch, trying to drink tea and read for what felt like a year when the lock ratcheted open.

He almost dropped the book and leapt to his feet, but managed to put it down on the coffee table and look up instead.

 

“Hi honey, I’m home.” Ariadne said from the doorway, smiling fit to burst. She was herself again, her hair loose, her red jacket closed against the cold and her scarf draped around her neck. She slammed the door, dropped her bags with a thud and kicked off her boots. “Did you miss me?” She teased as she sauntered down the hall towards him.

“You have no idea,” he couldn’t help grinning back as she stepped into the space between his knees, running her hands into his hair and rubbing his scalp with her fingertips, making wonderful, sharp tingles run down his spine and his head loll back.

He took hold of her hips in response, drawing idle circles over her jeans and shirt with his fingers and thumbs. “Did you miss me?” he couldn’t resist asking.

 

“Yes,” she sighed, her body rocking forwards a fraction as his fingers snuck under her shirt. Her skin was so soft, he marvelled. So warm and he just didn’t want to wait any longer.

 

He pulled her to him as he leant forward and pressed a kiss to her navel, his lips grazing the waistband of her jeans. Her skin was soft and warm, and smelt of her, a complicated perfume of apple scented soap, water, sweat and the moss and spice base of her fragrance. He pressed his nose into her, painting kisses over her belly as she drew lines over his scalp, her delighted moans vibrating under his lips. His hands hitched her shirt higher, wrapping around her ribs, thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts, working up over the gentle rise to find her nipples pebbling through the lace of her bra. She caught her breath as he swiped over the hard little buds, rolling them with the pad of his thumb. He wanted to do so much he could hardly think clearly; he wanted to taste her cunt, feel the shape of her clit against his tongue, he wanted to suckle her breasts, feel her naked in his lap with her thighs wrapped around his hips. His cock was stiff, begging to be released from his clothes as it pressed into his crotch seam, and his whole body felt like it was coming apart with desire.

 

He made himself pull back, trying not pant in desperation. “What would you like to do first?” He looked up at her, her a face a perfect picture of want, her skin flushed and her pupils dark and wide. “I want to do so many things,” he admitted as his hands dawdled towards her waist button. “I want to watch you come. I want to taste you. I want to be inside you.”

 

“Use your mouth,” she grated the words out. “I want you to use your mouth.”

 

He didn’t need to be told twice. Her jeans were undone and around her ankles as fast as he could pull them away, dragging them off and tossing them aside in an ungraceful flurry. She went to hook her thumbs into waistband of her panties, making to move them as well, but he caught her hands, cupping her hips and kissing her lace covered mons, working his lips down over fabric, feeling how damp she was as he put out his tongue and slid it back up over her, dawdling over the parting of her lips. She tasted salt, lactic and sharp like an earthy white wine, and he craved it even as it crossed his lips. Ariadne moaned, grasping at his hair as he pushed in deeper, sucking at her through the layer between them, pressing his lips and tongue over her, grasping her ass to pull her in closer.

 

“Oh god, Arthur. Oh, god.” She kept saying, pushing herself into his touch with every caress. “That’s so— oh god.” Every word seemed to inflame him, her voice so hungry and ragged in his ears that it made his want for her spill over. He grabbed at the waistband of her underwear and slid it away, and for a moment he did nothing but look at her, the scar on her stomach faded to a silvery line, the neatly trimmed dark hair covering the soft curve of her lips, the slight dimple where they began, and the traces of wetness both from his mouth and her arousal forming black curls. As gently as he could he put his hands on her thighs and parted her with his thumbs.

 

“Oh,” he groaned before he could stop himself. She was blush pink, shiny like wet silk, and the bud of her clit was standing proud from its delicate hood. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he breathed, and dived in with his mouth, her reply coming out as a garbled string of sounds as he slid his tongue over her clit, feeling the pulse of her blood behind it as he went back and back, fluttering over it, painting it with broad stripes or sucking it with a tight purse of his lips. Ariadne was moaning again, grabbing at his hands and grinding into his face. He opened her thighs wider and dipped his tongue inside her, curling it against the front wall of her pussy. He couldn’t reach her g spot with his tongue, he knew that, but the taste of her was so good he couldn’t resist, plunging his tongue in and out, licking and teasing her pussy as if it was her mouth he was kissing. Ariadne’s right hand closed over his left, pulling it upwards so his thumb was over her clit, covering it with her fingers, teaching him how she liked to touch herself.

 

He pulled back, locked eyes with her and deliberately closed his lips around his thumb, sucking on it to wet it. “Show me, I want to watch you.” He laid his hand back on her low belly, letting her guide his thumb into place.

“Like this,” she began to describe small circles over her clit with his thumb, pressing down and teasing it. “Just a little, then harder, a bit faster.” Her lips were parted and damp from where she’d wet them with her tongue. “Like that. Oh, yeah—” Her head lolled back, and he pressed his mouth onto her again, feeling her hips buck as he replaced his thumb with his tongue and slid two fingers inside her instead. She was so wet, pulsing around his fingers as he curled them into a beckoning gesture, running them over the softness of her, stroking down and and up again, feeling for the best spot. She was gasping now, there was a restless tremble in her legs that pushed him on, wanting to draw all the pleasure out of her that he could give.

 

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” she chanted in a voice gone thick and rough, the sound punching through him, heating his blood and sending it to his groin with a desperate beat. He couldn’t stop, groaning against her as he wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked, pulse after pulse until she made a glorious sound, a breathless body shaking cry as she tightened around his fingers, her hips arching forward as her body bowed back, her fingernails biting into his scalp as she held him in place.

 

“Oh my god,” she murmured as she came back down, her body still tightening and releasing around him. “Oh my—wow.” She chuckled, as he leant back. “How am I still standing up after that?”

“Maybe I need to do better,” he carried on working her with his fingers, feeling her chuckle rise up from inside. Her skin was flushed, her hair tumbled in messy curls, she was still half dressed, and he had never seen her look more beautiful. “Maybe I need to give you more.”

 

Her smile was so filthy it made his heart contract. “You seem pretty confident you can,” she teased lazily. “Is this another one of your incredible point man skills?”

 

He wrapped his arms around her waist and in one move took her from standing to sprawled on her back on the couch next to him, her delighted gasp even better than her grin. “No,” he smoothed his hands down her stomach, lingering across her thighs. She was so delicately made, a tiny model of perfection. “That was a point man move. This,” he dipped his head, kissing the top of one thigh then the other. “This is just me.”

 

She cupped his cheek, rubbing the stubble that was growing in. Her legs relaxed, one foot resting on the floor, the other against the back of the couch, letting him lower his head and run his tongue over her lips, parting them and darting his tongue back over her clit. “I want you to come for me again,” he murmured against her, “and again. You taste so good, Ariadne.” He broke off as her hips rose to meet his mouth, he closed his eyes and went down as she came up. His head was full of her, every taste, every sensation, every feeling and sound. He could hear her moaning as he traced over her, writing letters from his private alphabet over her clit: A is for Ariadne, B is for beautiful, C is for clitoris, curls and clutch, D is for delicious and damn, am I ever going to get enough? E is for eyes, watching me while I go down on her. F is for fuck, fuck, fuck; G is for groan and grip and God; H is for her hands, cupping her breasts under her shirt and how good this is. I is for—; then his brain stuck because she started to twitch, and it all shrunk to one letter I, I, I, I, like the word coming from her lips. He pressed his fingers back inside her, and with one stroke she bucked up, fists in his hair and her breath fracturing.

He kept working her with his fingers, letting the pulse of her around him slow again. When he looked up her head was back, her eyes closed and her lips open as she came down.

 

“Look at me,” he asked, and her eyes opened lazily, hot, smoky amber ringed with sooty lashes. “Come for me again. I love it.”

“Are you trying to kill me?” She joked in a lazy voice. “I haven’t even touched you Arthur, and I—” She stopped talking as he dropped his head again, lifting her leg so his thighs were around his ears, working his shoulders forward until they were pressed into her ass. One arm was trapped underneath him, but he kept working his fingers inside her, beckoning and stroking as he teased her clit. She was squirming against him, and the liquid sound of her was glorious. He could feel his body pleading for release, his hips rutting uselessly into the couch cushions, but above it was the desire to just keep doing this, drinking from her body until she was sated. He’d never indulged in oral sex like this with any of his hook ups in the last few years, all the women he’d slept with to scratch the itch more than to pursue pleasure. This was different, a pouring out of everything he’d held in for so long, participating rather than simply watching himself fuck.

 

Ariadne twisted, her body hot and restless, one hand knitting tight into his as he pushed in deeper, the lower half of his face slick and wet. He pressed his fingers against her, suddenly feeling a spot that felt slightly rougher in her smoothness and circling it as best he could, lapping her clit hungrily at the same time. Ariadne’s hand crushed his as she gave a sound like a mew, her back lifting from the couch in an arc and a sudden rush of wet coated his lower lip and chin, her body clenching around his fingers as she twisted and cried out.

 

He slowly drew his fingers from her as she fell back, her body sprawled and blushed against the cushions as he sat up and took her in. She looked lazy and sated, her shirt rucked under her breasts and he couldn’t remember ever seeing her look better. He answered her lazy smile, which stayed in place until she glanced at his chin, still sticky and coated with her arousal.

 

“Oh my,” she dropped one hand and ran it over herself, her blush deepening. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”

“What, that you can ejaculate?” He wiped his chin roughly with his sleeve. “Do you know how fucking hot that is?” Her eyes widened as he leaned over her, snatching her lips in a rough kiss. “Your come in my mouth, on my face, on my fingers,” he murmured, sneaking his hands under her shirt to cup her breasts. “You have no idea how fantastic that is. How good you look and feel when you come.”

“I’m dripping on the couch,” she protested weakly.

“I don’t give a damn about the couch.”

 

Ariadne’s breath fractured as he kissed her again, her hands yanking at his button down desperately. “I want to get you naked now,” she growled as their lips parted. “I want to return the favour.” One clever little hand cupped the curve of his cock, and he felt a moan rip from his chest, and the answering shiver it made in her body.

“You don’t have to,” he panted as she stroked him, another filthy grin on her face.

“I want to,” she repeated. “I want to suck your cock,” she said slowly, rolling her tongue around the words.

“Oh shit, Ariadne,” he breathed against her skin, his hands faltering on her breasts.

“Sit up, and let me get you undressed,” she pushed his chest away from her, sitting up with him as she scattered kisses around his mouth. Her quick fingers popped his buttons, then opened his cuffs, tracing over his chest with a rumble of delight as she pushed his shirt away. He peeled it off, dropping it to the floor as she grasped his belt, pulling it open before undoing his slacks with a deft slowness, her fingertips stroking his erection making his body surge towards her with each touch. He felt so sensitive, he could feel the pre come leaking onto his skin, and the desperate tightness in his groin. She made a beautiful, happy sound as she peeled down his briefs, letting him wriggle and shed his layers before she grasped him in one soft hand, taking in his form, learning it by sight and touch.

 

“Mmm,” she leaned over and kissed him, her thumb sliding over the head of his cock in a lazy spiral. “You have the nicest cock.” She started to pump him slowly, her other hand scratching his pubic hair with her fingernails. “You’re nice and thick,” she drew the word out, and it made him surge into her again. “I want to taste you. I want to have you in my mouth.” He felt like his brain was short circuiting, sparks of pleasure firing off every nerve, so he could hardly reply with any more than a mumbled assent.

“Mmm,” she growled again, her lips lingering over his, then straying down, over his jaw, down his neck and the centre of his chest, her hair creasing over his thighs as she kissed his stomach, silky and teasing as she went lower, letting it brush his cock as she gave him one last look from under her lashes, opened her mouth and wrapped her lips around him.

 

“Oh my god,” he garbled, groping blindly into her hair. Her tongue was drawing lines up and down his length, dawdling around the tip then sliding down again as if she was savouring an ice cream cone. Her mouth closed over him, sucking as she hummed from her throat, while her hand eased up and down over the length she couldn’t reach with her lips. Her other hand slid between his thighs, easing them apart so she could massage his balls, her fingers teasing them, scratching lightly then cupping them in her hand. “Ariadne,” he managed as his hips jerked upwards, then again, his body restless and desperate, grasping at into her wayward curls so he didn’t grab her head.

 

She released him with a soft pop of her lips, locking her eyes with his as she carefully wrapped the length of her hair around his shaft and started stroking again. It was cool, a shifting mass of smooth strands that made him gasp. “You like that?” She murmured.

 

“Uhh yeah,” he managed as she smiled back at him. “That’s good.” Her tongue flicked over the head of him again, working his arousal in fluttering strokes. Just watching her, he felt the snarl of desire in his belly uncoiling, heat tingling over his skin, a tension in his groin that was ratcheting tighter with every move. “I’m really close,” he warned, but Ariadne didn’t back off. She released him from her hair and pulled him back into her mouth, sucking and laving him with her tongue as she moved up and down over him, keeping her wide, bright eyes on his. This wasn’t like the blow jobs he was accustomed to, it was intimate and filthy all at once, her tongue teasing under the head of his cock, tracing the veins and pulsing her mouth around him, all the time watching him avidly as he groaned, trying to hold back, but it was too much. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Ariadne,” hoe chanted, then the power of speech left him, his body jerked into hers, pulling tight then letting go, pulsing into her, surrendering as he panted and shook into his orgasm, bright spots of light breaking over his vision, one glorious moment of sheer, boundless release before he fell back, hot and sticky and gloriously spent.

 

~*~


	11. Chapter 11

Ariadne lifted her head, cradling his jaw in her hands so he was looking at her. “You taste good,” she petted his face with her fingertips as she spoke.

“That was fucking amazing,” he managed to drawl, a lazy smile on his face.

“I wanted to return the favour,” she leant forward and kissed him, the bitter salt in her mouth from his come unspeakably arousing. He’d never tasted himself from a partner’s lips before, and far from being the turn off he imagined it simply heightened the image of her leaning into his lap and sucking him off. “And I may have had a fantasy about it once or twice. Maybe getting under your desk and doing it. Maybe when you were using the PASIV, and I could just sit on top of you, give you an orgasm that lasts for hours.” Her hands touched him again, feather light now, mindful of his post orgasmic state.

 

“I might have thought about it too,” he admitted, hissing involuntarily when her fingers got firmer. “Gently, I’m kind of sensitive.”

 

“Sorry, that’s just—” She stopped talking, opting to kiss him instead, letting his hands stray back under her shirt to her breasts. He was well aware he should be tired, and in the back of his mind he felt the usual post orgasmic urge to doze, but the rest of himself wanted to just keep exploring her, having been denied for so long it was craving every inch of her like a drug.

 

He let his mouth stray over her cheek, “Let me,” he breathed into her ear, teasing her earlobe with his tongue so she shivered in his arms. He peeled away her shirt, making her hair fall in messy waves over her breasts as it settled. He lowered his head and traced her collarbone with his lips, fingers moving her hair to draw the curve of her breasts where they rose. She made a wonderful purr, her hands stroking over his back in response, tightening when he shifted and caught her nipple in his mouth, working over the lace of her bra, suckling and teasing it to a hard nub.

 

“Your breasts are perfect,” he vocalized the thought in his head, pressing the words into her skin. “So lovely, all over.” He kissed over the delicate skin and took her other nipple between his lips, listening to her moan her approval.

“They’re kind of small,” she protested weakly.

“They’re perfect,” he insisted. “I love them.” Ariadne started to chuckle, but it caught in her throat as he unhooked her bra, fumbling it off and tossing it aside, cupping her in his hands, rolling his thumbs over her nipples as he kissed her again. “They’re soft, and sensitive, and they feel so good in my mouth,” he whispered as her eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted. He could feel her urging into him, and despite the fact he knew he was still recovering from his last orgasm his body was responding again, a thread of desire pulling him towards her. “I want to take you to bed,” he carried on. “I want to make love with you.”

“Arthur,” she sounded dangerously close to pleading. “Oh, Arthur. Damn, I— please. I want that. I want to feel you inside me.” Her words made a fresh surge of blood stir his cock, thickening it as his body began to tingle with arousal again at that thought.

 

He slid his hands down her back, cupping her ass and pulling her into his lap. It took an effort to lift her and stand, but she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, consenting to be carried and taking advantage of the situation to press kisses to his jaw, down his neck and onto his earlobes, nearly making him drop her when she nipped the spot where his jaw met his neck, soothing it by sucking, then nipping again, chuckling at his hiss and the falter in his steps.

 

Somehow he managed to get them both to his bed without incident, despite her lips and hands and the feel of her wonderful, distracting body pressed into his. He lay her down, letting her arms stay around his neck as she pulled him over her.

“You won’t crush me,” she pre empted him, reading the resistance in his body. “I’m small, not breakable. Come here.” She insisted, and he gave in, sinking over her, taking her right breast in his mouth as he teased the other. His cock was rubbing her thigh, sliding against the silken skin as she ran her hands down his chest, teasing and rolling his nipples as he sucked hers, a loop of pleasure that made his body sing. He switched sides, listening to her moans, letting them intoxicate him all over again. Her body was glorious, warm and open to him as he mapped it with his hands and mouth. He wanted to please her so badly it made him ache, bone deep with longing. He was mumbling words to her, declarations of love and desire in every language he’d ever learned as she twisted around him, reveling in him as if he was as much a gift to her as she was to him.

When her hands finally grasped him again the arrow through him was of desire again, and she heard it pull from his throat with a hot look burning in her eyes.

 

“Now,” she breathed into his ear as he dipped inside her with his fingers, feeling her coating her thighs and the sparks she’d pulled from him catching fire. He groped for a condom, disentangling himself long enough to roll it on before she was back in his arms, kissing him, stroking him, writhing her body against his.

“On top,” she whispered. “I wanna feel you around me. I wanna feel you.”

“Like this?” He draped himself over her, lying between the brackets of her legs, propped up on his hands planted either side of her shoulders. His hair was falling over his forehead, sweeping into his eyes as he looked down at her, sprawled on her back with her hair fanned over the sheets, wild, messy and untamed Ariadne with her shining eyes and eager mouth, her hands grasping him, guiding him inside, her hips canting towards him as she let go one shaky breath.

 

He pressed down, feeling the tightness of her body as he moved inside, the warmth and softness wrapping around him in a shock of pleasure that made his eyes roll back as he groaned, desperate and raw. He felt his arms tremble, forcing himself to be slow as she opened to him. Her body tensed and relaxed around him, better than her hands, better than her mouth, and his cock pulsed in response. “You feel so good,” he managed as he sank down, opening his eyes to look at her and finding her watching him, her lips parted. “You’re exquisite,” he fumbled the word out, feeling her clench around him as his hips met hers. He pulled back, gritting his teeth to draw the move out, when every instinct in him was just to thrust as hard as he could.

 

“More,” Ariadne’s legs rose, wrapping around his hips and pulling him back to her. Her hands settled on his shoulders, caressing his neck and down his chest before skimming back up again. He pushed back, a little faster this time, and her eyes closed, her moan everything he wanted to hear. Every cell in his body felt as if was blazingly alive, every notion of time gone as his focus shrank to her, him, this movement and feeling. He bent his head, scattering kisses on her upturned face and she met him, pulling his body into hers so their chests were rubbing over each other, sweat slicked and teasing as he felt her nipples press into his chest.

 

“Ariadne,” his whisper was hoarse, no other words mattered any more. “Ariadne,” he repeated, her body sliding under him from his thrusts, her chest heaving from her breaths, her sweat salty and perfumed on his tongue and the clench pulse clench of her cunt pulling him closer and closer to the orgasm he was craving, one that she was giving him.

“Arthur,” she replied, the sound of his name pulling through her lips in a slow curl. “Oh, Arthur. I wanna,” her fingers grazed his lips and he sucked them into his mouth hungrily. Then she pulled them free, her hand sliding between them as he sped up, shifting his hips to make a loose circle, hearing the sound of their bodies meeting, the bed squeaking, her moaning, over and over as the need wrapped around him.

“ArthurArthurArthur,” she chanted, her eyes going wide as her body bucked under him, then she had him locked inside her, her body going so tight it almost hurt. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she gasped, as her head went back, shaking and releasing.

“That it, Ariadne, that’s it, come on, Ariadne.” He begged as he rode it with her, trying to take in every detail so it would never leave his memory, the sheer erotic power of her that was threatening to overtake him. “You’re making me want to come so bad,” he hissed as she tightened around him again, and now his hips were moving faster than he’d given them permission to, grinding down as his body began to tense, the familiar tension drawing up inside him.

 

“That’s it, Arthur, that’s it, right there,” she crooned back, holding his face in her hands. “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful when you come. Show me.” She rolled her hips under him, changing the angle as her body tightened again. All he could see was her, all he could feel, stuttering her name as his orgasm punched through him in a breathless wave, hard and wonderful, exploding behind his eyes and shooting from his body.

 

He came to himself, collapsed on top of her, panting and hot. Ariadne was kissing his cheek, massaging down his back and purring again, a rumble from her chest like a contented cat. “That was pretty amazing,” her nose pressed into his cheek, cool against his skin. He was crushing her, he had to deal with the condom, but damn it, he felt so undone, so completely pleased it was making it hard to even think straight.

 

“Thank you,” he turned his head and kissed her, relishing it, her hair in his face, the sweat cooling on their bodies, everything. “It was pretty fucking amazing for me too.” Ariadne chuckled underneath him, pouting when he sat up, moving off her to clean himself up, grabbing him back with greedy hands when he lay down again.

 

“Did you want to shower?” He wrapped her in arms, pulling her closer, just as greedy for her.

“No,” she molded herself against him, letting one hand rest on his ass and squeezing cheekily, making him start. “I want to stay right here and make out with you for a while. You made me sweaty, and wet and I like it.” She leant forward, catching his lips with hers, and he knew her smile was mirrored by his own.

~*~

 

He woke up to find himself alone, the sheets creased and mounded around him where he’d been laying on his side. He sat up abruptly, a sudden fear in his mouth that Ariadne had gone, married to the strange sensation of having fallen asleep with her, something he hadn’t done with anyone he’d had sex with in a very long time. He was so used to getting up, dressing and leaving that the luxury of feeling her curled up against him had lulled him, as if the trust he had in her had let him relax enough, sure that she wouldn’t hurt or betray him. It felt new and odd, like a limb fresh from a plaster cast as he leant into it, and the surprise of her absence made it twinge.

 

But as his brain cleared he realised he could hear music, something playing down the hall in the living room, a guitar being plucked in a jaunty tune, and his body relaxed again. He got up, throwing the comforter back and slipped from the bed, across the floor of his room and down the hall, his feet slapping on the coolness of the floor.

 

Ariadne was sitting in the window seat, wearing his discarded shirt, her knees drawn up and a cup in her hands, looking out at the nighttime skyline. His dad’s old record player was open, and a 33 was spinning steadily as a man’s voice filtered from the speakers on the floor, a happy tone despite his sad words, the guitar picking along as a soft swell of strings rose up behind it.

 

He stopped for a moment, just as he had done when they first came here, and looked at her. “I love you dearer than them all, them all,” the man on the record sang earnestly, as if he was pulling the words from Arthur’s head. “So let me stay with you. Let me stay with you.” He pleaded, even as Arthur watched Ariadne, the shape of her in the dim light, everything he wanted to say snarling up in his throat in an unfamiliar tangle.

Some rebellious and sour part of his mind kicked out, insisting he had no right to be this happy or this contented, to be allowing himself the luxury of her because it was a risk and he should know better. But it drowned in the swell of everything else that was pouring over him, he was happy, he was contented, and he’d denied himself for so long it quenched a thirst he’d forgotten he’d ever had. This woman, so glorious and infuriating, so beautiful and terrible, so very, very whole even without him, had grown inside him until he turned around one day and realised he needed her as much as she had ever needed him, not just as a colleague but as herself. It was terrifying and wonderful, but he never wanted to let it go.

 

“Hey,” he said from the doorway, watching as she turned her head and perfect, warm smile grew on her face.

“Hey yourself. I didn’t wake you up, did I? You were dead to the world, and I couldn’t bring myself to disturb you, so I got up and ordered us some pizza, because I’m starving.” She put her cup down and held out one hand to him, reaching out into space so he could take it and she could bring him to her for a kiss. “Did I wear you out?” She rested her hand on the back of his neck, resting her forehead against his.

“No, to both things.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “What were you doing?”

“I was just enjoying the view. We’re so high up here, it’s like the whole of the city is spread out, all shiny and neat. Like when I build, except I don’t have to make the effort to imagine it. It’s already waiting for me.”

“Did I tire you out?” He lingered over her lips again, his hands dawdling to the buttons of his shirt.

“No,” she chuckled. “The job did though. All that stuff with Ballard, designing, building. My head feels like it needs a rest.”

“You know how incredible you were though, don’t you?” He closed his eyes to breathe her in for a moment. “You were seriously badass.”

“From you, that’s one hell of a compliment.” She drawled, her nails trailing down his chest. “The guy who dropped a whole group of people without gravity.”

He kissed her again, tasting her smile. “Then you should know how seriously to take it.”

“I always take you seriously, Arthur.” Her voice had dropped into a lower register, serious suddenly. “I was just so fucking scared you were never going to take me seriously. See that I need you like this as well, not just as my point man.”

 

He swallowed, feeling the possessive pronoun catch inside him and spark. “Ariadne,” he slid his hands inside the shirt, letting it gape open as he grasped her shoulders. His tongue felt thick and stupid, stumbling as he spoke. “I do take you seriously. I’ve seen you do so much, become so much. I thought what you needed was my strength, my shoulders to stand on so you could rise, but I was arrogant and I was wrong. I love you.”

 

She frowned up at him, her mouth agape as if she’d gone mute. “Oh, you—” She gave up, pulling him to her as his shirt fell from her body. “Show me,” she whispered. “Show me. I trust you.”

 

The desperate arousal he’d felt before was tempered now with tenderness, a strange feeling he’d always thought would be soft, but instead was fierce, trying to bleed through him so it could wrap around her and never let her doubt again, ridiculous though that was. Her body felt light and delicate in his arms as he turned her to face the window, her back against his front, his erection resting in the curve of her back. He kissed her neck, stroking her breasts and belly, then lower to her pussy, where he felt her open to his fingers with a shiver. He turned her head towards him, meeting her lips in a kiss that he hoped told her all the things he couldn’t say: That she was right in the centre of his universe, that he would care for her, try to protect her, let her free and hope she would always return. That she was part of him, as necessary as his spine or his heart, and he wanted her, not as a trophy or a possession, but as his architect, his partner, his lover, all of her.

 

She leant forward, her hands spread wide on the glass. He slid inside her, hands around her hips, feeling the heat and slickness of her body, the condom barely dulling his sense of her. He moved forwards as she rocked on her toes, then back. “Tell me what you see,” he murmured to her as he carried on.

“The city. All the buildings, reaching up to the sky, all the lights. The street below us. It’s high enough that it feels like everything’s miles away. Like I could fall and it would be like flying for a moment.”

“That feeling when you look down, how terrifying and beautiful everything is? You see that?”

 

“Yeah,” Ariadne’s head rolled back, her fingers slipping on the glass as she moved. He wanted to kiss her back, every ridge of her spine and the wings of her shoulders. He ran one hand down her stomach, over the curls covering her pussy and pressed the heel of his hand over her, rubbing into her with every thrust.

“It’s like that.” He felt her tighten around him as he pressed harder. “It feels like that, for me, with you.”

 

“Arthur,” she whispered, her fingers flexing and leaving trails from her hot skin.

“Look at it,” he repeated, speeding up as she tightened around him again, her hips rocking into his hand. “That’s what it’s like loving you. And I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”

 

She moaned his name again and clenched around him, pulling him into her as his body released, suddenly and blissfully letting him fall, tumbling over into the flood with his arms and eyes wide open and her name on his lips.

~*~

 

She pulled him into her arms afterwards, her mouth soft and her kisses hard, folding him into her body as they collapsed onto the window seat. Her elbows were sharp, and her feet cold, her knees digging in as she wrapped around him, stroking his skin, breathing hot words into his ears.

“I love you,” she was fierce, her voice almost shaking as it formed the sounds, then soft, the contradiction of her twisting in his hands, never stopping, always in his head and his heart. “I love you, Arthur. I love you.”

~*~


	12. Chapter 12

**_ New York/— _ **

 

The business class cabin was quiet, save for the hiss of the air conditioning, the whisper of other passengers’ movie choices filtered through tinny headsets and the sounds of sleep. The cabin attendant tiptoed back and forth, the slight rustle of her clothes the only thing betraying her. Next to him Ariadne was asleep, her head lolled on his shoulder and her hair falling in elf locks on her cheeks. She mumbled in her sleep, one hand worming into the space between his arm and his body, her fingers flexing as she wriggled closer.

 

Arthur wondered if she was dreaming.

 

There would always be another job, another place to be, another plane ride, another hotel room, until the day comes when he stops. He used to think he would always be slipping between points on the map, dropping through the cracks of people’s lives like a dust between the floorboards, swept away without thought, evaporating into the air, stretching into the vanishing point where his death waited. He always believed that he was a man who could cut the ties that stuck other people to a singular existence, that they were the hole where bullets could get in and were better lived without. But looking back now it felt like youthful arrogance to have ever thought that was possible. No life was lived in a vacuum, and trying to forget that he was flesh and blood underneath it was the most stupid mistake of all.

 

It wasn’t weakness to feel what he did, it was courage. It wasn’t a wound she’s opened in his side, it was a strength that flowed from her to him, the giddy understanding that despite all he is and has been, she loved him, a man who had lived in the margins of the world others call real, who had seen more cruelty, folly, fear, jealousy and violence than he ever knew he could, who has killed and broken until his soul felt steeped in it. She could see what he is, and she wasn’t afraid. She’d opened him out, stripped him bare and still, she stayed. And in return he saw her, the monstrous and the glorious, and he embraced it.

He had new things pressed between the pages of his memories now. Sitting on the floor of his old home eating pizza and drinking beer while she accidentally dripped tomato sauce on his shirt. Drinking coffee in the window seat while she showed him the treehouse she was designing for her nephews. The sunlight falling on her eyelashes, her smile, the way she twirled her pencil in her fingers when she was thinking and the gasp she makes when he kisses the base of her throat. He cupped them in his hands and held them tight, clenching his fingers to keep them safe.

He turned his head a fraction and kissed her forehead, breathing her in. This wasn’t a choice without risk, he knew that. But he’d decided long ago that the life he’d picked is worth the risk it presents every single day and with every single act. So why not this? He asked himself. Why not take it, and reap the reward? It stunned him how simple it was once he had someone he was prepared to take it for, and in that moment he understood Cobb better than ever. Love is hard, selfish and blinding, but it’s also kind, generous and tender.

 

Ariadne stirred in her sleep again. “You’re thinking too loud,” she mumbled into his jacket.

“Sorry,” he whispered back.

“You’ll fall asleep when we get there if you don’t sleep now.”

“Isn’t that the point?” He teased her, because she made it easy for him to be that person, someone who can tease, smile and laugh.

“We finally get to share a hotel room and you want to sleep?” She groused.

“We’ll have to eventually.”

“Spoilsport.” She shifted to get comfortable, then tilted her head up for a kiss which he gladly gave her. “Get some rest.” She advised softly, and curled back up into him again.

 

He closed his eyes as she settled, letting his body relax with hers. Just as she’s grown her own wings, not simply borrowed his; he’s found his heart, rather than stolen hers. It felt raw and new, but he wasn’t afraid. He’s in love with Ariadne, and she’s in love with him.

 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  Sub Rosa (Latin, underneath the rose) is an idiomatic expression that means 'things that happen in secret' or 'things to be kept confidential.' 
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> The poem which appears at the beginning and from which the quote on the graphic is taken is Poem XII from Pablo Neruda's _Twenty Poems of Love and One Song of Despair_ , translated into English by W.S. Merwin.  
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> The idea of a second paradigm of subconscious behavior comes from a prompt posted on the inception_kinkmeme. I apologize to the anon for not being able to thank you in person, and for using it to my own ends.  
>  
> 
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> Everything I know about firing guns, particularly for women with guns, I learned from [The Cornered Cat.](http://www.corneredcat.com/)  
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> [_Pancit bihon_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pancit) is a Filipino comfort food, made with fried noodles, sliced meat and a piquant sauce usually made with soy and lime. It's bloody delicious.  
>   
>   The krav maga techniques, including the knife control and disarm, are correct to the method and curriculum taught by [Krav Maga Global (KMG).](http://krav-maga.com) However I should point out that it is more usual to practice with rubber knives, not wooden spoons.
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> Vermeer's _[The Concert](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Concert_\(Vermeer\))_ is currently the most expensive painting to have vanished from the international art market, and the details given about it are broadly correct. It's unknown if it's currently being used as a negotiable instrument, although evidence from the use of other paintings that have been recovered suggests it probably is. This idea is infinitely better examined in the fantastic novel _The Goldfinch_ by Donna Tartt, which I recommend to everyone.   
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> The song playing in Arthur's apartment in the last but one scene is [_Genesis_ by Joram Kaukonen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SU1YASW3rhc)   
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> A few words on Eames' (and Cornwallis') verbage:  
>  _5k_ is five thousand pounds (a k is a thousand.)  
>  _[you look like a] bulldog licking piss off a nettle_ is to suggest someone is making a very sour expression.  
>  _don't come the [blah de blah] with me_ literally 'don't behave like that with me or else.'  
>  _skimpies_ are underwear.  
>  _Brick Lane_ is now a sort of tiny Williamsburg in East London, famed for its Indian (mostly Bangladeshi) restaurants.  
>  _Chicken Korma_ is an Anglicized curried chicken dish served in a creamy sauce made with tomatoes, and supposedly the second most popular curry dish in the UK, after the eternally loved chicken tikka masala.  
> 


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